Dream thief

8

… SPENCES HELD THE FLAME in his hands. It burned lightly, fluttering yellow in the soft night breeze. He brought the candle, made of woven cloth and plant fibers dipped in wax, close to his face and felt its warmth lick him.

Beyond the small circle of his light he could see nothing. The night sat like an impenetrable wall all around him. Above, no star gleamed, no moon shed its light-all was dark and Spence was alone in the darkness.

The only thing holding the awful smothering blackness at bay was the little, crudely formed torch in his hand. That a light so small could keep out the dark seemed a miracle.

He had never thought about it before, had never seen this miracle performed. But he witnessed it now, and he marveled at it. Even the tiniest spark was stronger than all the mighty forces of the night.

Strange, he thought, that it should be that way.

Suddenly a quick gust of wind whipped at the flame, and though Spence cupped his hand around it at almost the same instant, it was too late. He saw the flame wink out as the darkness it had been holding back leaped in to devour him.

Like some immense, amorphous creature, the darkness absorbed him into itself. He could sense its exultation at conquering him-a thrill of excitement seemed to course through it as it tightened its grasp on him. He knew, with a horror that exceeded any he had ever felt, that it meant to crush him into nothingness. Already he could feel the suffocating blackness, clamped like an iron fist over him, beginning to squeeze him.

The mind that controlled the darkness, that was itself the heart and soul of darkness, reached out toward him. He recoiled from the contact as if from the slithering touch of a reptile's polished skin. His blood ran cold.

He had touched a mind of utter chaos and depravity, and it made him feel weak and insignificant in its presence. It meant to kill him, but for no better reason than that it meant to kill all things that possessed even the faintest glimmer of light in them.

A long, aching cry tore from his throat, full of helplessness and bleak despair. In that cry he heard all the bitter disappointment and hate and injustice he had ever experienced-the sum total of all his deepest fears and failures.

And he heard the cry lose itself in the darkness, becoming part of it, strengthening it. Spence knew then that the despair and the hate and all the other black nameless fears belonged not to himself-although he had held them and nourished them in his innermost being; they belonged instead to the darkness that covered him now, were part of it, were one with it. Long had they fought within him to extinguish his spark, that portion of light that was his.

Now they had gone back to strengthen the darkness from which they were sprung. Now it would at last crush him.

Spence felt his strength to resist slacken, running away like water. That the darkness should prevail over him was the most monstrous insanity he could conceive. To be snuffed out like his poor candle flame seemed to him the final, unanswerable injustice. And for what? For possessing a tiny gleam of light that he had never asked for, nor sought.

"No!" The shout was defiance. "No, no, no!" He heard his cries die in the darkness.

Then he heard a sound that pierced him like an ice dagger. It seemed to hollow him out, disemboweling him, slashing at his heart. The sound was laughter, originating from within the cruel mocking heart of darkness.

He would be annihilated with the insolent laughter still booming in his brain; his last thoughts would be of the utter senseless waste of his life, echoed in each note.

"God!" Spence cried. "Save me!"

He felt a shudder run through the darkness as if he had wounded it with a blow. And then a single beam of light, finer than a single hair, struck down through the darkness to stand shimmering before him. Spence reached out and touched his finger to the light and felt it sing within him. It was alive, this tiny laser point of light, in a way that the darkness was never alive. It had power beyond all the power of the darkness, and it awakened in him a corresponding power as it infused his own inner spark with new brilliance.

In the light he heard a voice speak to him. "Why do you search in darkness for your life?" it asked.

Spence could not answer it. He could not speak.

"Come into the light," said the voice, "and you will find what you are searching for."

Spence looked up at the shining thread of light and far above him he heard a tremendous tearing sound as if the sky itself were being torn in two. He clamped his hands over his ears to save them from the deafening sound.

Far above him he saw a crack in the darkness and light began to spill in. It seemed to him for a moment that he was inside an enormous egg and light from a greater world outside was pouring in through a crack in the shell.

He heard above the tearing sound the agonizing shriek of the darkness as it was riven apart and burned away by the light. Then he was standing in a pool of light that fell down upon hint from above. He raised his face to it and filled his eyes with it.

With a terrific roar the darkness dissolved and ran away and a brilliant white light, brighter than ten thousand suns, blazed. He felt its power and its vibrant, living energy as it danced over him, tingling every pore, every square centimeter of his skin.

Now it was inside him, penetrating his flesh and bones and burning into the fibers of his soul. He could feel it like fire -cunsuming all impurities, devouring any remaining shreds of darkness which clung to his inner self, cleansing the very atoms of his being.

Spence then knew that he and the light were one; it had done its work in him and he was transformed into a living beam of light. He felt himself expanding and growing without limits, a creature of infinity, without beginning or end, and yet he knew the true living light to be as far above him and brighter as he was himself above and brighter than the darkness it had saved him from.

He had touched the source of life and it flowed within him and through him and always would. It was eternal and so, now, was he. He knew that he was born to be part of it and to live forever in it.

The thought was a song inside him; but there were no words, only a melody which soared endlessly up and up, ever higher, ever more pure. …

SPENCE BENT OVER THE sleeping form of Adjani. The forest sounds were hushed; it was an hour yet to daylight, though through the trees above he could see a dull blue showing. Crickets in the tall grass and among the branches of nearby bushes trilled musically, filling the night with their peaceful sound.

"Adjani, wake up!" He heard the slow, rhythmic breathing of his friend and hated to wake him, but his news would not wait. It had to be told. "Adjani!"

"What is it?" Adjani sat up at once-wary, like a cat. "Has something happened?" He looked around quickly but saw no signs of alarm. A bandit sentry watched them from a distance; his rifle rested on his knees. Clearly, they were in the same predicament as before; nothing had changed.

"Adjani, I've seen him!" Spence's hands were shaking and his voice trembled.

"Seen who?" Adjani came fully upright and peered into Spence's face. He saw a peculiar light in his friend's eyes.

"The Creator of all this," he waved a hand vaguely at the jungle around them, "of you and me, of the universe!"

"What?"

"The All-Being-God! He spoke to me!" Spence put an unsteady hand on Adjani's shoulder. Until he had said the words aloud he had not consciously named his vision. The full meaning of what he said broke in on him, jarring him. He lapsed into a stunned silence.

"Spence! Are you all right?" Adjani shook his elbow.

"I'm fine." Recognition came back into Spence's eyes. He lowered his head and grinned sheepishly. "It was only a dream."

"Tell me about it," said Adjani. "I have learned to respect your dreams."