To Fight the Black Wind

Chapter 8

I prefer to think about things before I do them. I plot, plan, and consider. I rehearse conversations in my head, research before I write, and decide my route before I travel. I dislike improvisation in uncontrolled circumstances. It is who I am and who I have always been.

However, there are times when I cannot be in control. When I act on instinct, I am usually correct. Usually. I believe appropriate, instinctive actions come from a lifetime of planning and experience. It is only after the fact that I understand what I did and why.

Josephine and I ran until we could go no farther without traversing the bridge I’d thought was stone. This close to it, I saw that it was not stone, but ice and wide enough that two cars could pass each other. My stomach roiled at the thought of crossing that chasm on an icy bridge.

“What do we do?” Josephine stood close at my back.

I looked around for handholds—up or down—for us to climb to safety. There was nothing. Worse, the sky above darkened and swirls of light that looked suspiciously like eyes appeared to watch. The wind picked up and the clouds began to roil as if alive. Lightning lit the clouds from within, followed by the crashing boom of thunder. There was no help there. Even the mountain itself had taken on a malevolent quality, looming over us. Our only escape from the shantak was the bridge of ice.

Then I remembered my father’s pistol. It was already in my hand, waiting for me to realize it was there. I checked both the magazine and the chamber. I had six rounds to protect us. Steeling my resolve, I set my stance and took aim. “As soon as I start firing, you get across that bridge. I’ll follow.” I kept my fear to myself. If I appeared confident, Josephine would trust that I knew what I was doing.

“I am ready.” Josephine lifted her robe to make sure she didn’t tread on it as she fled.

“Good. Go.” I fired my first shot at the closest shantak monster. My shot was true. I hit it in one of its bulbous eyes. My next shot struck it in the neck. Josephine sprinted away, across the icy bridge on nimble feet. I watched as the wounded monster crashed into the mountain and flailed its bat-like wings, keening in pain. The second shantak turned from me to its fallen companion. My hopes for a feral response died in vain.

Instead of attacking and savaging its wounded peer, it landed next to it and licked at the blood. Not to feast, but to clean, to help, to heal. I backed up as the first monster went still and the second gave a cry of rage before launching itself into the air with great flaps of its leathery wings.

I sprinted after Josephine, expecting her to be at the other end of the bridge. To my horror, she stood in the middle of it, staring down at the chasm beneath. “Josephine, run! Run!” The bridge that had seemed so reasonable moments before now seemed impossibly long and thin. My shoes couldn’t gain purchase and I skittered across it in an unsteady gait.

As I reached Josephine, the creature above us screamed. Josephine shook her head, mumbling, “The minions of the Black Wind. How do they know I’m here? How can they?”

I aimed a shot at the shantak and fired—more to scare than to harm. “Josephine, go!”

She looked at me with fear-filled eyes. “They know I’m here.”

I fired again, keeping the nightmare creature at bay. “We’ll deal with it. Now go!”

A deep crack resounded through the chasm. It was the sound of breaking bone. It was the sound of the bridge we both stood on crackling beneath our feet. I looked down and realized that it was bone. The ice had been its flesh. At the same time, I reached out a hand and pushed Josephine toward the other side of the bridge.

As soon as my hand touched her, propelling her forward, my vision plummeted far below to the raging river I had not known was there. A boat filled with half-man beings seemed to reach up for me. They were men, but they had goat legs with cloven hooves and horns protruded from their heads. More demon than man, they shouted, “The Bride! The Bride is here!” Some with no faces gibbered and jeered in glee. Fear overwhelmed me as bile filled my throat.

Then they were gone and we were running across the bridge as it shattered beneath us. Josephine tumbled to her knees as we reached the other side. She disappeared in a shower of falling ice, bone, and stone, screaming.

Plunging my left hand down, I grasped for her. I could reach her. And I did. I found and gripped her wrist as hard as I could. She reached up and grabbed my arm with her other hand. I hauled her over the edge, back from the precipice. Josephine sobbed and clutched at me. For the briefest of moments, I hugged her tight. I wanted to fall into the relief of having caught her. I could not. In my other hand was my weapon. Above us, hell screamed its fury.

I aimed another shot, my fifth, and fired. It struck the shantak’s tail, but didn’t appear to slow it down. I surged to my feet and looked for shelter. Not twenty feet away was a door in the wall of the mountain. Framed in dark wood, and as neat as you please, it waited with the patience of a saint. I did not question it. The door looked as if it had been made for us. “There! Go there!”

There was no more time. The shantak was on me. It beat at me with wings of leather as its talons slashed the air. I dodged as best I could. It was not enough. One of its claws caught hold and pierced my shoulder, knocking me to the ground, pinning me there. I screamed my pain and beat at its leg, trying to free myself. My scrabbling hand couldn’t get purchase on those slick, hard scales.

Fetid breath assaulted me as the shantak came in to bite. I pistol-whipped it to no avail. The shantak snapped at my face, inches from my nose. I did the only thing I could do. I thrust the pistol into its slavering mouth, pointed up, and pulled the trigger.

For a moment, it continued to flap its wings. Then it went slack and fell, its mouth ripping my father’s pistol from my hand, as it hit the ground, half on and half off the cliff edge. Its talon tore at my shoulder as the monster’s body slid over the edge of the stone. I thought I was going to go with it. Then strong arms wrapped themselves about my waist and pulled me back from the edge. The shantak’s talons hung on, tearing flesh and cloth as I screamed. Then the talons, and the monster, were gone.

Pain-dazed and bleeding, all I could do was let those strong, tawny arms—Josephine’s—pull me from the cliff edge, through the door in the mountain, and into darkness.

I leaned against a cool stone wall and put my hand to my left shoulder. Pain spiked and my hand came away wet. The sound of a match striking gave scant warning that light was coming. Then the vision of Josephine lighting a lamp came into view.

As did my blood-covered hand.

I was bleeding and in pain. You weren’t supposed to feel pain in dreams. I’d never bled in a dream before. I tried to marshal my thoughts, my focus, my will to make the bleeding and the pain stop. Nothing happened. I was still wounded. Still bleeding.

This was real.

“We’re in luck. This is a tunnel I know. A little red singing bird of Celephaïs lives here.”

I ignored her. I stared at my bloody hand glistening in the lamplight. I touched my torn shoulder again and gasped at the pain.

This was real.

This was happening.

This world was real.

The Dreamlands were real. I could die in this place. Josephine could die. I wasn’t strong enough to save us both. Worse, I’d lost my father’s pistol. No longer did I believe it still lived in my desk drawer. I’d lost my protection, my touchstone. I’d lost…

Malachi sprang to mind, one of our many conversations before a hypnotherapy session.

“You’re still suffering from intense nightmares, or bad memories?”

“Well, Doctor, those are two things I’ve got a bit of trouble keeping straight.”

“Malachi, let us see what we can do about that…”

He’d been telling the exact truth and I hadn’t seen it for what it was. Those nightmares and bad memories had been one and the same. In my mind’s eye, his hesitant smile morphed into the relaxed state of hypnotic sleep, then his brow furrowed with fear. I could hear him whispering.

“Shadow figures stood above me and blood dripped from their fingertips.”

I hadn’t believed him. I had been so wrong. The ones with curved knives had come for him. Even though he died with one of their knives in his heart, all I could remember were the glyphs drawn in his blood on the wall of his room.

When he told me the shadow figures had taken his last name—“The Darkness that Watches”—he’d told me the truth. They’d left one of their knives in his body and I still had not believed. I had been so blind. So arrogant and so blind.

A sound came to me. Someone kept saying the word “no” over and over.

That someone was me.

I couldn’t stop myself.

“Shhh. Shhh.” Josephine was by my side. “Listen to the singing. Listen. It’s a bird of Celephaïs. Listen.”

She put her fingertips to my lips.

I wanted to bite them.

The very idea of me biting my patient shocked me into stillness and silence. I listened. There was birdsong. It was sweet. It cascaded over me, relaxing my tense muscles. Pain receded. Although it did not disappear, it cleared my mind of its panic.

I wanted to fight the song’s soothing touch, to lose myself to the panic, the fear, and to never have to think of what I’d just realized ever again.

“I need to look for something.” Josephine’s voice echoed in the tunnel. “I will be back. Listen to the singing. Listen to the bird.”

My patient was trying to care for me. She was barely more than a child. I had a duty to her. I had to process what I now knew. For her sake as well as mine.

I leaned my head back with my eyes closed. Birdsong swelled. I fell into its ebb and flow. They say music soothes the savage beast. In this case, it soothed the chaos of panic. I considered my position. Somehow—Josephine did this, my mind whispered, she brought me here—I was in this place called the Dreamlands. It was filled with monsters and allies. Somewhere in this land was a place Josephine called the Red House. It was a safe haven. There, Josephine would return something she was protecting and her nightmares would go away, thus, her madness. I would deal with the rest of her mental trauma back in the real world.

I bowed my head. I had been uncommonly deceitful—to Josephine and to myself. This whole time that I’d assured my patient I believed her, I had actually been waiting for the logical explanation to appear. I’d been waiting for Josephine to realize the lie she’d told herself to cover the pain of a trauma she did not want to face. Deep down, I had believed Dr. Mintz. I had believed that Josephine Ruggles was merely hysterical and was crying out for attention. That she had not actually needed help.

How many of my other patients in the asylum had I done such a disservice to?

Back in the asylum. Back on Earth.

I was not on Earth. I was in the Dreamlands. I was in another time and place. There was no denying it as blood leaked from my throbbing wounds, in time with my beating heart, to drip down my body and stain my clothes.

The more I accepted the fantastical idea that I was not on Earth, but in another time and space, the rest fell into place. I thought of the cats of Ulthar and of Foolishness. The orange cat had instructed us to return that way to leave. Thus, there was a way to go home. We were not stuck in the Dreamlands forever. Just long enough to do what needed to be done.

If I could be strong enough to accept what was happening.

I would.

I must.

I tried to straighten as the sound of Josephine returning obscured the birdsong. The pain was too great. This was a concrete problem I could deal with. I would have to have her bind my arm to my body. Looking up as my patient and the lamp returned, I was pleased to see she was again in her adventuring clothing. She, too, was fortifying her will once more.

Josephine knelt next to me and revealed a handful of small red feathers. “Feathers from the little red singing bird of Celephaïs. They heal wounds. As its song can heal the mind.”

This would be the final proof. As if I needed more proof. I did, though. My rational mind did not want to believe in the irrationality of my situation. If the feathers healed me, I’d have no choice and could admit aloud I was in a different world with different rules that could be bent by an act of will. “What do I need to do? Eat them?”

She shook her head with a smile. “No. They are to be used like a poultice, although they work more quickly.” Josephine eyed my torn shirt. “I am sorry. We will get you a new blouse from the trunk up ahead.” She pulled a knife from a sheath at her waist and began cutting the shirt off my shoulders, revealing the bloody wounds.

“Where did you get that?” I nodded to the knife in her hand.

“The trunk. I remember now that we keep trunks of useful things in places we travel for just this sort of emergency. This is something my family started long ago. It was part of our training. This is not the trunk I created. Though, I have added to it over the years.”

“I see.” It almost made sense. I put my hand on my thigh, looking for and not finding the sheath to my father’s pistol. The pang of its loss hit me again and I closed my eyes.

“This will hurt, but only briefly.”

I opened my eyes and watched Josephine lay the small red feathers against my body where the shantak’s talons pierced it. I gasped as the feathers stung like needles piercing my skin. Then, the pain disappeared as the feather melted into my flesh. Over and over, Josephine laid the small feathers against my wound to meld with my body. Each one took away more of the pain, closing the wound. As Josephine ran out of feathers, my wounds were fully healed. I noted that even the scratches on my right shoulder and collarbone had healed.

“Well then.” I took a breath, let my worldview tilt upon its axis, and accepted it all. “The Dreamlands has some amazing aspects to it. When we return to our world, I’ll have to write as much of it down as I can remember.” Josephine helped me up. “We will remember what happens here, won’t we?”

She looked at me, her dark eyes shining. “You understand. You believe. You finally believe.”

I nodded. “I do now.” I wondered if we were in two places at once or if, somehow, Josephine had brought our bodies through, too. I kept my questions to myself. One epiphany at a time.

She gave me a brief, fierce hug. “You were supposed to help me. To come with me. I knew it. You are my anchor.”

I returned the hug out of duty and took pleasure in it. Josephine had failed on the bridge, but succeeded when I faltered in body, then in mind. I had not suspected she could, or would, do either until she acted. She walked a strange balancing act of weakness and fear while standing upon a core of willful strength. She was a complex woman. I had more to learn.

As a point, Josephine did not answer my question. That, in and of itself, was an answer. We probably wouldn’t remember what happened here. Or, like a dream, would not remember for long. “Where is this trunk?”

“Of course. Of course. My doctor cannot traipse through the Dreamlands in a camisole and a torn blouse.”

There was an airy joy in her voice I had not heard before. I wanted to question it. I wanted a shirt more. Goosebumps covered my exposed flesh.

The trunk was there at the opening of a cave. It had all the things you might need for an adventure—rope, light, canteens, clothing—as well as some more esoteric things—a doll, chalk, a mirror, rubber balls, and a mask. There was no food. Then again, I still wasn’t hungry.

I chose a functional shirt that would keep me covered and somewhat protected. I was not surprised that it fit well; as if it were made for me. That was the way of things here. Things would work until they weren’t supposed to work anymore. There was freedom in the acceptance of my new understanding of the universe—it was so much larger than I had imagined. My point of view had shifted to save my sanity. Already, I worked to incorporate the new knowledge into my worldview and my psychological tool chest.

Josephine snuffed the lamp. I gave her a quizzical look.

“We won’t need it. I believe I know the way now. Someone else will need this in the future.” She put the lamp in the trunk and shut it. The trunk locked itself with a thunk, the leather belts affixing themselves on their own. Rather than be horrified at the living trunk’s action, I was charmed. It would protect its bounty from those who should not have access.

I turned my attention back to Josephine, replaying her words in my mind. I examined her face. Was that contraction from fear or a new level of comfort with me? Or, was it merely a contraction?

Josephine stood still with her hands clasped before her as she waited for my word to continue on. Her face held no answers. Not for the moment.

I gave her a professional smile tinted with concern. “Oh, it’s good to leave it then. While you lead the way, we will speak of this Black Wind and his minions.”

Her face fell. She cast her eyes to the ground.

I touched her shoulder to soften my words. “We’re still in session. I’m still your doctor. We have things we must examine.”

Josephine nodded, fear plain on her face. “If you wish.”