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Pounding like a trip-hammer, his heart beat to a frenetic rhythm as if bent on breaking free from the constraint of his chest. His head ached, the pain throbbing to the same metronomic pulse, whilst his lungs burned as if filled with molten fire. At last fully awake, he fought to control his breathing, slowing and deepening each intake of breath, responding to the instinctive awareness of his body's paramount need for oxygen. As his breathing settled to a more normal rhythm, the tightness in his chest eased, and his racing heart slowed its furious pace lessening the pain in his head.
Struggling free of the last vestiges of tangled bedding that had not fallen to the floor, he shivered as though there were a coolness in the room to chill his sweat soaked body. Yet the gentle warmth of early summer was abroad, only the heat radiating from his body causing the cool shock sufficient to jolt his mind into momentary distraction, providing the cue for his finally accepting that he really was safe in his own home. As the passing seconds became minutes, so his body settled to its customary cadences, his thoughts although beginning to clear were yet unable to provide him with any answer to the question that troubled him the most. What in the name of God was happening to him?
Seated on the edge of the bed he rolled his shoulders whilst moving his head from side to side in an effort to release the tension from his muscles as he searched his memory for any clue as to why he felt the way that he did. Recalling his activities of the previous day, everything seemed so ordinary providing nothing to satisfy his desire for an answer.
As was frequently the case he had spent a long and admittedly tiring day at work that had ended as it too often did, with a scratch meal, on this occasion, of salad and cold meats, followed by his falling into a semi-stupor in front of the television for a couple of hours. By eleven o’clock he had finally given up the struggle to stay awake, and gone to bed, tired certainly, but as far as he knew not in any way unwell. It was what had occurred long after he'd fallen asleep that worried him. Had he suffered some sort of fit? A seizure? He didn't know, and it was the uncertainty that really scared him.
Waking up with his heart racing, almost unable to catch his breath, and with his body drenched in perspiration were minor considerations compared to his absolute conviction that he was not where he should be but...but... His thinking faltered as his mind balked at the question. Where in God’s name had he thought he was? Yet his second unspoken blasphemy like the one before it did nothing to ease his troubled mind. For a moment his thoughts began wandering again, drifting like a rudderless boat in the mists of his nighttime experiences, only to be shipwrecked amid the cruel rocks of their images.
So strong was his reaction that once again as if gripped by ague his whole body shivered uncontrollably when he recalled what he had seen. As the shaking slowly subsided, he remained where he sat, trying to force his thinking along another avenue. Clearly, he was exactly where he would expect to be, the reality making even thinking such thoughts irrational yet his mind refused to release the notion entirely. He could think of only one logical explanation, that once again he’d been the victim of a particularly vivid and horrific nightmare.
With conscious effort, he sought to convince himself that what had occurred had been nothing more than a bad dream. Looking about, his uneasiness receded farther when he saw his clothes where he had left them on the chair the previous night, the loose change and keys from his pockets still on the bedside table, beside the alarm clock. With daylight pushing the last remnants of shadow deep into the corners of the room, so finally was he able to drive back the darker thoughts.
Standing up and eyeing the bed’s disarray, he turned and bent to tidy it, his gaze falling on the face of the alarm clock as he did so, freezing his movement as he stared, transfixed by the green glow of its digital display, 6:66. Impossible, and, in the blink of an eye, gone, as the numbers flashed briefly changing to 5:01, challenging him to believe he had seen them at all. In an instant all his fears returned full force to beat at him with cold, heavy fists.
It wasn’t the first time the numbers had appeared but he'd seen no significance in them at first, simply assuming the clock had malfunctioned in some way. Now with the same sequence of numbers having appeared on more than one occasion he wasn’t able to accept that it was due to a simple fault. Although he’d never considered himself a religious person, if pushed he would admit to harbouring a mild belief in some rather unspecific greater force, so the scriptures had played little part in Adam’s life. Consequently, his reading of the Holy Bible had been no more than that required of him whilst still at school, the Revelation of St. John the Divine escaping the curriculum. It wasn't until some weeks after the second such occurrence, when he had been rummaging through his oddly matched and chaotic collection of books that he unearthed a long time read copy of Robert A Heinlein's novel and made the connection.
Each time he had experienced these night time episodes, he’d been subjected to the same terrifying visions of lands and creatures unknown, the never to be forgotten horror of the burned bodies and the seemingly uncontrolled flights. Repeated down to the smallest detail he was finding it hard to accept such a simplistic rationalization as dreaming. As if the recurring nightmare wasn’t enough, there was the same fearful return to his own place and time, with that impossible message, 666, the number of the beast, confronting him on the face of the clock. It was more than he could accept that on three different occasions, he should wake and imagine he had seen it, and always after experiencing the same nightmare flight. For a moment, his thoughts faltered as he realised that thinking of it in this way was dangerously close to believing it had actually happened.
Although quite certain he wasn’t ready to journey forth along that particular road, something deep within him rejected the notion that he had simply been dreaming. However, finding an alternative and rational explanation was proving beyond him. It all seemed so improbable, that each time and only when the awful visions of Vilsagoth disturbed his sleep did he wake to the strange message.
As the name came unbidden to his thoughts, it didn’t bring an immediate response but when it did, his fear was momentarily forced away. Where on earth had he dredged it from? It meant nothing to him, and yet somehow he felt it meant everything. As an avid reader of science fiction and fantasy novels, enjoying the pure escapism that they provided, countless imaginary names had passed before his eyes, yet he was convinced this was not the invention of those authors under whose spell he allowed himself to fall.
With a certainty that he could never have explained, he knew that Vilsagoth was a name linked to his dream world if such it was. Although convinced that his sanity wasn’t in doubt, the previous night’s experience had left him sufficiently shaken that he felt naming dream worlds wasn’t entirely rational. A flight of fancy for children maybe or perhaps, and here he did at least concede the possibility, writers of fiction, yet not for a sober guy of twenty-six with his feet firmly on the ground or so he thought. It made no sense, and yet somehow he remained confident that the name wasn't simply the product of his imagination. His final attempt to dismiss the matter, by thinking that he simply had to have read the name somewhere, he felt was no more credible.
At that moment, the sounds of the dawn chorus finally broke through his thoughts, providing a welcome distraction. Against the rising crescendo of the birds' songs, he shivered again, more from nervous reaction than from the temperature, and then forced his somewhat unwilling limbs towards the bathroom to begin another day.
Drying himself after a long shower that he had deliberately alternated between hot and cold to chase the lingering unease from his mind, he wrapped a towel around his waist, and stood in front of the mirror. With his concentration given to squirting shaving foam into the palm of his left hand, then instinctively working the lather around his face as he prepared for that most hated of tasks, the morning shave, he paid little attention to his reflection.
Because of a tough beard and soft skin, shaving was an ordeal that a variety of lotions and razors had done little to improve. He'd even experimented with a beard for a short time, but it had itched so badly he'd finally been forced to shave it off. Steeling himself for the first pass of the blade, he finally gazed at the mirror only to realize that he hadn't cleared it of the condensation caused by the steam from his shower. Grabbing a hand towel, he swiped it across the glass and instantly recoiled from the vision that stared back at him.
No way was that his face; the cheeks were sunken, the eyes red-rimmed and puffy; even his natural tan that normally remained with him throughout the year had gone, replaced by an almost deathly pallor. Blinking and refocusing, he stared again at the reflection in the mirror, only to be rewarded by the same unhealthy look, further distorted by the beads of moisture still clinging to the glass. That does it, he thought, maybe it's time I went to see Doc Andrews; if nightmare disturbed sleep can make me look this haggard I'd better get something done about it.
Having finished his shave, he grabbed a comb from the glass shelf above the hand basin intending to restore order to his dark brown and somewhat over long hair. He'd been meaning to get it cut for a couple of weeks now, and the delay was clearly apparent. As he applied the comb, he gazed ruefully at the bold white streak that ran through the wave dominating the front of his hair, a legacy seemingly shared by all the male members of the family on his father’s side, yet one he would have gladly forgone.
Although not a vain person, hence his ability to ignore the need to get his hair cut in favour of more pressing matters like his work, because of the white streak, he could never shake the discomfort he felt when meeting anyone new. To his mind at least, the brief stare that always seemed to accompany such meetings, appeared to focus entirely on the swathe of white hair that he felt marked him like some deformity. Reaching his usual impasse with the hair, having abandoned a half-hearted attempt to disguise the white streak by hiding it amongst the surrounding growth, he returned to the bedroom thinking not for the first time that he supposed he could always dye it.
Dressing quickly in blue jeans and a white T-shirt bearing the logo of one of the currently popular designers which, despite its loose fit did little to disguise the defined musculature of his chest, he went to the kitchen to get breakfast, his thoughts uneasily returning to the horrors of the night. Although he had only experienced the recurring dream on two previous occasions, he was forced to admit that for some weeks he hadn't been sleeping well. He'd tried to put it down to the stresses of his job, something he accepted went with the level of computing in which he worked, strain being an occupational hazard, yet equally well, he was sure that he was still young enough to be able to cope with the pressures without cracking up.
A creature of habit, at least as far as his first meal of the day, he had gone through the same ritual ever since he had moved from his parents' house to live on his own. Flicking the switch to turn on the radio as he passed, he began to prepare coffee and toast to the sounds from his favourite classical station, the rather sombre tones of the current work causing him to reflect, as he had on a number of previous occasions, upon his solitary existence.
It was always at the beginning of a new day that the emptiness of the house made itself felt, touching him with a loneliness that vanished once work started. Most evenings he was too tired to notice. There had been a few relationships, sadly all short-term, as gradually each girl had come to realise they were unable to compete with his commitment to his job. In a rare moment of self-criticism, he wryly acknowledged that he was bordering on becoming a workaholic. Not that it was detrimental to his health, he was sure of that, but it did put a sizeable dent in his social life.
Breakfast over, sugar and caffeine levels restored, his thoughts turned to action as he reached what was for him a quite momentous decision. Checking his watch and seeing that it was still too early, he resolved to call his boss, Colin Barratt as soon as he could and say that he felt unwell and would not be coming to work that day. Although Colin was always one of the first to arrive at the office, Adam put off making the call until almost eight fifteen, uncomfortable with what he proposed. When he finally got through, the ensuing conversation proved to be every bit as difficult as he had anticipated although not through any fault of Colin’s but because lying didn’t come naturally to Adam, although he knew his words held more than a little truth.
Despite never having done anything like it in the six years he had been with his employers, he still felt guilty doing so now. To add to his discomfort, Colin's concern was so genuine that Adam had difficulty in maintaining what he still felt was a fiction. Finally, hoping that his act hadn't been too extreme, and that his assurances that he would be back to work the next day not sounded overly emphatic, he nervously hung up the phone before the receiver slipped from his sweat-moistened grasp.
It was several moments before he had calmed himself sufficiently to make his second call, although he reasoned that at least by doing so it added some justification to his taking the day off work. Glancing at the list of important numbers that he kept beside the telephone, he dialled the one for his doctor's surgery, whilst silently praying that he would be able to get an appointment at such short notice. Fortune may have looked in Adam's direction at that moment, although more likely it was because it was too early for the surgery to have opened, as it was the doctor himself who answered the phone. Instead of the intended rebuke, the moment Dr Andrews knew who was calling, he readily agreed to see Adam later that morning.
The doctor maintained his practice from rooms on the ground floor of his private residence, a large and rambling detached house of indeterminate age on the edge of town. Arriving just before the appointed time towards the end of morning surgery Adam found that he still had to spend several rather unpleasant minutes in the waiting room. Sitting in the company of an elderly couple, both of whom, judging by the wheezing and coughing, appeared to be suffering from acute respiratory problems, had little to recommend it.
Finding no interest in the aged assortment of magazines lying untidily on a small table in the centre of the room, his gaze drifted around. Posters advising parents on how to spot the symptoms of drug abuse in their children, others extolling the virtues of ‘flu jabs whilst yet more advised on appropriate inoculations for travellers all adorned the once white walls, beside the browning remains of adhesive tape where their predecessors had either been removed or simply fallen down and been discarded. The only other piece of furniture apart from the line of chairs, was a wire rack standing in one corner, its assortment of leaflets on claiming various benefits, and the inevitable shock literature on AIDS, all curling forlornly.
Not that the room was particularly depressing, but by the time it came for him to enter the consulting room he had reached a point where he was seriously beginning to question the wisdom of his visit. As the patient before Adam left the surgery, a short ring from the bell on the receptionist's desk signalled the doctor’s readiness for whoever was next, prompting her to call Adam’s name and as he looked in her direction, she informed him that he could go through to see the doctor.
Entering the inner sanctum, he found the doctor bent over his desk still busily writing up his notes on his last visitor. Not wishing to distract the man, Adam crossed the room to the chair reserved for patients that stood to one side of the desk, and nervously sat down. It was obvious from the heap of patient files, the large bottle of writing ink, and the much-used blotter, that the age of computers had yet to dawn in the world of Dr Andrews. Even the desk, a massive construction in dark oak that appeared to take up half the width of the room and came complete with a dozen or more pigeon holes and small drawers all stuffed with various forms and odd bits of literature spoke of an era long past.
In the short time before the doctor looked up, Adam found himself studying him, noticing that despite the passage of time, Andrews retained a full head of wavy hair. Only above the ears did its dark brown colouring give way to a touch of silver, yet Adam guessed that the man must be almost retirement age if not a little older. Still wearing the same tweed jacket with the leather patched elbows that Adam recalled from previous meetings, despite the heat of summer, and although he couldn’t see from where he sat, he felt certain the doctor would be wearing the same heavy brogue shoes. Yet, both had to have been replaced more than once in the intervening years.
Dismissing the thought, Adam found that despite feeling somewhat on edge, he accepted this as his natural reaction to anything remotely medical, he still felt comfortable in the doctor’s presence although why this should be he was uncertain. The most likely reason he could think of was a hang over from childhood when the doctor had seen him through a particularly unpleasant bout of measles. Finishing his task the older man finally looked up, his eyes bright above the gold-rimmed half glasses that he wore, yet as he did so, his smile faltered. Although quick to hide his reaction, he wasn't fast enough to prevent his visitor from seeing it.
“Well young Adam, sorry that I kept you waiting, what brings you to see me after such a long time?”
For an instant, Adam hesitated, momentarily unsure of himself, he'd been on the verge of claiming his visit had been a mistake, and that he was feeling fine, but seeing the doctor's reaction made him realize he had little chance of convincing Andrews that was the case. “To be honest Doc, I'm not sure why or even if I should be here at all,” he offered lamely.
Aware that his own reactions had clearly caught him out, prompted Andrews to inject a lighter note into his voice in an effort to restore his patient's confidence. “Nonsense, it's obvious that something is wrong from the pallor of your skin, and the dark rings under your eyes. Too much bed and not enough sleep eh?” he quipped.
Although he had no reason to be surprised by what he knew to be an oblique reference to sex, it stirred a discomfort in Adam whilst making him realize it had been a long time since he had seen Andrews. So much so that in a way he'd still been thinking of the doctor in the same terms that he had when he’d been much younger. Now because he was treating him as an adult it had somewhat thrown him. Relaxing slightly, a hint of a smile touched his mouth as he answered, “I guess you're right, or at least in part because I haven't been sleeping too well lately.”
“Ah” said Andrews nodding gently, “anything else?”
“Not really, except...” Adam hesitated, “it’s just that recently I've been having the most awful nightmares, I mean it’s crazy for someone my age isn't it?”
Andrews uttered a dissenting grunt before asking, “Hardly crazy, and anyway what makes you think nightmares are the exclusive province of age groups other than your own?” Then in a less querulous tone he added, “I suppose work has more than a little to do with the problem. Still, before we go into that, why don't you get your top stripped off behind the screen over there, sit on the couch and I'll have a quick poke and prod the way we medics are supposed to.”
A barely audible chuckle followed Adam as he crossed the room in response to the doctor’s instruction. Despite a feeling of uncertainty prompted by why the doctor should feel that a physical examination was necessary, Adam complied with the request, his earlier tension beginning to fade as Andrews' easy manner and wry humour took effect. Even though his mood had improved somewhat, Adam's determination to get to the bottom of the trouble had if anything intensified, although the doctor's words reinforced his own suspicion about overwork.
Dressing after a thorough examination that had been far from the ‘poke and prod’ alluded to earlier, it had even included the taking of a blood sample; Adam returned to the seat beside the doctor's desk to await the verdict. For a moment, the older man said nothing, as he finished the notes he had been writing, and then slowly and deliberately laying down his pen, he removed his spectacles and looked straight at his patient. Something about that look caused Adam a twinge of panic as he waited for the doctor to speak, certain that he was about to make some awful pronouncement.
“Well Adam, there's nothing physically wrong that I can find; you obviously keep in good shape, heart, lungs, and blood pressure are all fine...
He paused, the unspoken BUT hanging like the veritable sword over Adam's head. Then before he could voice the question, Andrews continued.
“However, I am in no doubt that you are suffering from severe physical exhaustion... which, I suspect, goes for your mental condition also. I know you caught my reaction when I first saw you; I'll admit now that initially I thought you might be using drugs, hence the physical.”
The suggestion horrified Adam, his thoughts clearly mirrored by his expression, yet the doctor continued undeterred.
“I should add that as I examined you, I noticed a number of bruises on your arms, nothing serious in themselves, but they are unusual, and I thought they might be the result of hypodermic usage. At least my examination would appear to rule out drugs, but what on earth have you been doing to get yourself so run down and knocked about?”
For a moment Adam remained silent, dumbfounded by the doctor's words. His relief at hearing that Andrews hadn't found anything seriously wrong was more than tempered by the uncertainty surrounding the bruises and his tiredness, and by the fact that the doctor had even considered he might be a junkie. Finally rallying his thoughts, his first reaction was to protest his innocence concerning drug abuse.
“I'd never use drugs, for God's sake I've never even tried smoking pot!” he exclaimed.
“I think I already knew that,” said Andrews, his tone mildly apologetic, “but you did exhibit many of the signs. I'm sorry I even mentioned it, especially when I could see for myself that there were no needle marks, but I had to be certain. However, that doesn't explain your condition. Can you think of any reason for it, is you job particularly physical?”
Somewhat mollified by Andrews’s contrition, Adam's tone as he replied sounded almost despairing, “That's the trouble, I can't and no there’s really nothing physical about my work, I spend most of my day sitting down staring at a computer screen. There's not a damn thing I can think of that would explain it. I know I've been pushing it a bit hard at the office, I’ve had to put in some long hours so much so that I had to give up my regular swimming session... even my visits to the gym,” he added almost as an afterthought, “but that's only been recently.”
“Eating properly, smoking or drinking too much?”
“I don't smoke, rarely have a drink, and eat fairly well, although I have to admit it's often rather hurried,” conceded Adam.
“Hmmm,” mused the doctor as he settled deeper into his chair, “what about these dreams, tell me about them.”
Whilst asked in undoubted innocence, the question caused a fleeting sense of disquiet for Adam, as though answering might somehow expose a part of him he felt needed to be kept hidden. He felt like asking how dreams could be responsible, reluctant to relate the details of his nocturnal experiences although he knew that not to do so might cause offence and would be preventing the doctor from having all the facts.
However, with nothing else to go on and needing to find the underlying cause of whatever was responsible for his symptoms he decided there could be little harm in answering. “There's not a lot to tell that would make any sense, one minute I'm being chased over what looks like an alien landscape by some sort of monster, the next I'm on a vast plain covered with thousands of burned bodies.”
Shrugging and turning his hands outwards in a gesture of resignation Adam sighed. “It's difficult to explain, but each time I wake up thinking I've somehow been taken from my room to some far off place. What's worse is that when I wake up, the bed's wrecked, I'm soaked in sweat and ache all over, crazy isn't it?” Despite having made up his mind to tell the doctor about the dreams, he couldn’t bring himself to mention the clock’s odd behaviour, certain that to do so would not assist the doctor’s diagnosis and could well provoke doubts about his sanity.
Leaning forward in his chair, Andrews smiled, trying to ease the tension he felt still existed between them. “Not crazy, although I can understand why you might think that. The subconscious mind is very powerful and at the time, dreams can seem quite real, as for their content it’s often influenced by things like the films we watch or books we read. Would anything like that account for what you’ve been experiencing?”
“I guess it’s possible, I’m a great Sci-Fi and fantasy fan. To be honest I was thinking along those lines myself.”
“Well there you are, the fact that your bed is in disarray coupled with the aches that you feel might account for the bruises. It's not unheard of for people to thrash around in their sleep, especially when dreaming. I'll bet my pension that the only real problem here is your unmistakable exhaustion. That's what we have to overcome.”
Although he hadn’t known what to expect from the doctor’s diagnosis it clearly hadn’t reassured Adam as was apparent from his reply, “So what are you saying Doc? I should just try to forget the whole thing, is that it?” his voice sounding unreasonably petulant.
Andrews grimaced at the implied rebuke. Recognizing that his words had somehow been misinterpreted, he tried to remain calm, “Most definitely not, although that might be the ultimate aim. I'm sorry old son; I didn't mean it to sound as though I was dismissing the problem, far from it. What you need is a decent spell of rest. Meanwhile, I want to get a couple of tests done on your blood, as I suspect you're mildly anaemic. I can give you a prescription for a tonic to correct that, but the most important thing is going to be complete rest and relaxation. I think something like four weeks should do the trick, take a holiday if you can, get out and get some fresh air and get the colour back in your cheeks. I'll give you some mild sleeping tablets to take for a few days just to help restore your natural sleep pattern, but you need to relax.”
Realizing he'd been unnecessarily rude, Adam tried to make amends, “I'm sorry Doc, I hear what you're saying, but there's no way I can just take a month off work, we're in the middle of a big project now.”
No longer attempting to sound conciliatory, Andrews returned, “Adam as much as I hate to say this, it's for your own good. You may not be aware of it but in my opinion you're on the verge of complete exhaustion; you either take the time off now or risk having a breakdown, very possibly in the not too distant future. In which case if you're lucky it will only take you a few months to recover, and if you're not, it may affect the rest of your life. So make an appointment to see me again in three days, by which time I'll have the test results and then take a break, get some meaning back into your life.”
Whether it was due to the tiredness that he could feel beginning to overwhelm him, the disquiet caused by the doctor's words, or a combination of both, Adam suddenly lost the will to argue. “Okay, I guess you know best, and to be honest I haven't had a holiday for the last couple of years so I suppose they owe me that much.”
“Good man now get this prescription made up and then find yourself a warm sunny beach somewhere. Come back and see me in a few days and I’ll give you the test results, although I don’t anticipate finding anything serious. Oh! And give my regards to your parents when you next see them.”
“Thanks Doc, I will,” Adam responded distractedly as he got up to leave.
Despite his worries about how his boss would react to the news, Adam's second call to Colin Barratt went more easily than the first. Although Colin considered Adam highly prized for his skills, he wanted him fully fit. Apparently, he had noticed how tired Adam had been looking of late, and agreed to him taking a long overdue break.
Faced with four weeks leave for which he had made no plans, Adam set about the task of trying to book a holiday. His lack of enthusiasm, heightened by his tiredness, drove him to seek the assistance of the nearest travel agent. He quickly discovered one advantage of being able to leave at short notice; he could get a relatively cheap flight, although booking hotel accommodation was another matter.
Although not mean, Adam had always been cautious with money, saving hard, yet prepared to spend generously if he felt the need to buy something, hence his new car. Having decided to use the greater part of the money he had been carefully putting away for the time when he finally got round to taking a trip, he soon found himself booked on a flight to the west coast of America.
Lacking the motivation to prepare a complete itinerary, and taking the advice of the clerk in the travel shop, who assured him that provided he was flexible, rooms in the States were easy to arrange and often cheaper if booked locally, he only made reservations for the first two nights in a Los Angeles hotel. As the arrangements were being made, he found his enthusiasm growing, even to the point where he was actually looking forward to the trip.
Amazed at the comparatively low cost of American internal flights, he decided to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity thrust upon him. After some quick-fire typing on her computer terminal, the travel clerk soon had him booked on flights for the whole trip. From Los Angeles, his plans would take him south to San Diego, where he had a couple of friends he intended looking up; then taking a rental car on to Mexico for a few days, before flying on to Las Vegas followed by a second car trip to the Grand Canyon before finally returning to San Francisco. With all that distance to cover, he was sure that the three weeks would pass soon enough. He knew he would never be able to endure just sitting on a beach, but there would be time to laze around and catch the sun, albeit poolside, if only long enough to restore his tan.
With his travel arrangements complete, he returned home to check that his passport was in order, although he was reasonably sure that it was, having used it recently on a business trip to Germany. He then spent a dusty interval retrieving suitcases from the loft, and the rest of the morning cleaning them up and making sure he had enough lightweight clothes to last the trip. That done, he began to wonder how he should fill the time before his holiday. With three days to wait before he got the test results, and his flight arranged for the fourth day, he felt uncomfortable at the thought of having time on his hands.
Looking out over the garden from the windows of his house, he felt that he should be doing something by way of mowing or weeding, but after the exertions of the morning, he found he just didn't have the energy. “Besides,” he reminded himself, “what would Jack have to do if I did it for him.” Jack being a retired council gardener who spent a few hours each week keeping Adam's gardens immaculate for the small retainer that was all that he would take for his efforts.
Deciding that as it was past the noon hour he would make himself a snack, his main meal of the day being taken in the evening, and after raiding the refrigerator, hastily assembled a couple of sandwiches. Armed with these and a cold beer, he went out into the garden where he fetched a lounger from the garage. Settling himself comfortably in the shade of a tall rowan tree, he prepared to eat his lunch and read a new offering by one of his favourite authors. He remembered eating the sandwiches and drinking at least some of the beer, but the effects of the sun's warmth, together with his general tiredness, soon overtook him and he gradually dozed off.
Unlike the troubled sleep of the previous night, he lay completely at peace. It wasn't until almost two hours later, as he began to stir, that he started to dream although not of the strange world of his earlier experience. This time the images were so breathtakingly beautiful that he could only marvel at their form. Swirling patterns of light, full of grace, movement and colour that shimmered and then steadied, only to change moments later. With no apparent repetition but a constant kaleidoscope of shape and coruscation, the subtlety of which almost defied description.
Gradually, a form began to emerge, something less insubstantial but translucent making it appear no more solid than the rest; only to be lost moments later in the overall pattern as it continued to shift and alter, the whole never lessened by the parts. Again, the shape began to coalesce, this time lasting fractionally longer than before, though barely time for true recognition before the colours diffused leaving nothing but the barest hint of what might have been.
During the whole of this time, mere seconds but seemingly much longer to Adam as he drifted on the very edge of true sleep, his mind filled with the idea that if he could grasp the meaning of what he was seeing, it would go some way to explaining the nightmares. Charged with anticipation as the shape began to reform, his hopes of recognising it were instantly dashed as the whole pattern suddenly shifted plunging him into a well of despair.
Instead of the balletic choreography of movements he had been watching, a corybantic display of disjointed and grotesque transitions assaulted his senses. The patterns were no longer harmonies of shade, texture and scintillation but harsh and deep hued slashes of colour. Accompanying these new images was an almost overwhelming feeling that what he was witnessing was in some way a living thing and that where before he had viewed it in life, now he was seeing the agony of its death throes.
Mentally recoiling from the shock that the change had on him, Adam had the clear but uneasy feeling that he was being deliberately shown these new images for some explicit purpose. Finally, the seemingly random display took on coherence, as for the last time the image began to reappear, but not as before. This time it stabilized and held for several moments, quite long enough for the image to burn itself indelibly into Adam's memory. The crystal ball, for he could now recognise what it was, slowly turned sending flashes of rainbow colours arcing from it when without warning it suddenly shattered, shards of crystal tumbling down and filling him with a sense of loss and sorrow beyond words.
As the image began to fade, so Adam passed from sleep to wakefulness, the transition not as it had been that morning, but a gentle, more normal awakening. The moment he opened his eyes, the visions he had just experienced suddenly flashed back like an instant replay. Without explanation or reason on which to build such a premise, somehow, he knew beyond doubt that what he had just witnessed were not normal dream sequences, and with the knowledge came something else, a sense of new awareness.
Closing his eyes, he recalled the image of the crystal, realising as he did so that at last he understood at least one small part of the puzzle. With unreasoned certainty, he knew the crystal had to be his grandfather's scrying crystal. Given to Adam years before, as a child its smoothness and weight had fascinated him. Now it had to be somewhere with his parents, because he couldn't remember taking it with him when he moved away to make his own home.
Thoughts of his parents caused a moment of guilt as it dawned on him that until then, it hadn’t crossed his mind to tell them about his plan to go off on holiday. Whilst he loved both parents dearly, since leaving the family home, he’d made his own way, and although he telephoned quite regularly, he didn't see them more than about once a month. He knew that he would have to visit them before he left on his trip, likewise knowing there would be one or two awkward questions as to the reason for it. Sitting up on the lounger, he quickly gulped the remainder of his beer, grimacing at its warmth, and then grabbing his book, got up and hurried indoors.
He put his glass and plate into the sink and left his book on the worktop as he picked up the phone, then before he had time to think about it dialled his parents' number. His mother answered, and because it was midweek, at a time when he would normally be at work, the tone of her reply conveyed concern when she recognized his voice.
“Are you alright dear?” she asked giving him no time for explanations.
“Fine mother,” he replied, desperately trying to think of how to turn the conversation without causing more concern, whilst inwardly cursing himself for forgetting about the time before he rang.
He’d never been good with half-truths where his mother was concerned and now proved no exception, his next words sounding completely inane. “I rang to tell you that I'm going away on holiday, and I thought I'd pop over and see you both before I left.”
“It's a bit sudden isn't it?” said his mother almost accusingly, “I mean the holiday, not coming here, of course you can come over, you know you’re always welcome,” her own unnecessary clarification having somewhat flustered his mother, yet the concern was still clear in her voice.
“Sorry, yes I suppose it is, but I need a break,” then suppressing the temptation to become involved in a lengthy discussion on the subject, Adam tried to force the conversation to a close, “look I'll explain when I see you, if I leave now I can be there before dinner if that's okay?”
“As if it wouldn't be; I'll tell father, he'll be pleased to see you, you know we don't see you half as often as we'd like,” again a hint of accusation before his mother added “you’ll have dinner with us, won’t you?”
“Thanks, that would be great,” then with his mother's gentle rebuke still sounding in his ear, Adam hung up the phone and went back out into the garden to put the lounger away in the garage. Once back inside the house, he locked the back door and deciding to change his clothes, which looked crumpled after his falling asleep in them, hurried into his bedroom. After a quick wash and change, he picked up his keys and a couple of the brochures he had got from the travel agents, and let himself out of the front door.
For once, the sight of the gleaming red BMW parked in the drive at the side of the house evoked no reaction, his thoughts still distracted by the images of his dream. He'd only bought the car recently, and with the novelty having yet to wear off, every opportunity to drive it had filled him with a renewed pleasure, yet not today. Climbing into the car, he carefully reversed out into the quiet street in which he lived, and drove off. Unlike on previous occasions, even the swing of the tachometer needle, as the six-cylinder engine responded to his demands, failed to elicit even the smallest reaction. Although aware that in some small way life had changed for him, he had no way of knowing as he headed across town to where his parents lived, how little of it would ever be the same again.
At any other time, the journey would have taken him less than forty minutes, but with the approaching rush hour, he knew it would likely be something over an hour before he reached his destination. Surprisingly, he had fewer delays than expected, and as he pulled into the drive of his parents' house, he glanced at his wristwatch, noting the journey had taken him a shade over fifty minutes.
He barely had chance to switch off the engine and get out of the car before his mother was coming out of the front door, with Jasper hard on her heels. Bending down to stroke the spaniel whose frantic circling of his feet ceased immediately as the dog began licking at his hands, Adam ruffled its coat, then straightening up, allowed his mother a welcoming hug and kiss. Conceived rather late in life, after his birth, Adam's mother had been told that she would never be able to bear a second child. Consequently, she doted on him, a fact that had sometimes caused friction, particularly when he had left home.
He on the other hand had always done his best to return her affection, whilst keeping his distance, never allowing her to smother him. As always, she dressed smartly, her figure trim, and her hair recently coiffured its colour still vibrant, although he guessed she probably had it tinted these days. Despite appearances, he knew she was no idler, working several hours each week in a charity shop, shopping for a couple of elderly friends, and of course providing a seemingly endless supply of cakes and preserves to be sold to help raise funds for whichever was the current cause.
She also maintained a very high standard at home, keeping her house clean and tidy; a chore made all the more difficult by Adam's father. Alec Goodchild had a tendency to wander in from his vegetable garden, proudly bearing the fruits of his labours whilst completely oblivious to the trail of dirt his muddy boots had left across the kitchen floor. He also had the rather disconcerting habit of discarding items of clothing, newspapers, and even the odd tool, quite literally wherever he decided he no longer needed them. It was not unknown for guests to find themselves being prodded in the rear by screwdrivers, pliers or whatever Alec had relinquished charge over so that they could work their way between the cushions of the settee.
Retrieving the travel brochures from the passenger seat of his car, Adam locked the BMW, and followed his mother towards the front door of the house, Jasper bounding ahead.
Barely had she closed the door behind them before his mother asked, “Why didn’t you say before that you were going away?” her tone implying possible deceit on his part.
“Because I didn’t know,” he replied honestly, the arrival of his father saving him from further explanation of the suddenness of his actions, at least for the moment.
“Hello Adam, it's good to see you.” Having been sternly warned moments before Adam's arrival, his father had left his boots at the back door and had walked through to the hallway in his stockinged feet. He wore an old tweed waistcoat, the pockets of which bulged with secateurs and hanks of green garden twine, over an open neck shirt, and brown corduroy trousers. Like his son, he cleared six feet in height, his white streaked hair only recently beginning to recede and go grey at the temples.
Having retired a couple of years back, his parents were able to live comfortably on the proceeds from the sale of his father’s thriving dental practice. The house although too large for their needs, had almost a third of an acre of garden, which his father had no intention of leaving all the while he was able to share his time between its maintenance, and his other great love, golf.
“Hi Dad, how are the roses doing this year?” He asked, correctly guessing that his father had been out in the back garden tending his favourite blooms.
“Good Adam, very good in fact; so how are you keeping? Job still going well? Your mother said something about you going off on holiday, 'bout time I'd say.”
By this time, the three of them had moved into the comfort of the lounge, where Adam's mother waited to see the men settled, having ascertained that her husband’s clothing had no garden detritus clinging to it that might soil the furniture, before she went off to the kitchen to continue preparing dinner. Her departure was punctuated by her calling over her shoulder a stern admonishment to Adam’s father ‘not to leave anything lying about’.
As soon as she was out of hearing, Adam turned to his father. “Dad, I'm glad Mum's out of the way for a minute, as there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Because Adam had rarely sought his advice in the past, or perhaps because of the earnest way in which he had spoken, something about the moment caused the older man to feel uncomfortable. His first thought was that possibly Adam had got into some sort of financial difficulty, the new BMW undoubtedly costing a considerable sum, yet he immediately dismissed the idea knowing that his son earned a very good salary and had never been careless with money. Before he had a chance to consider any alternative or offer what support he could, Adam interrupted his train of thought.
“I went to see Doc Andrews this morning, who by the way sends his regards.”
Whatever else might have gone through his mind when Adam had mentioned seeking his advice, the possibility it might be his son's health that was the problem would have been the last thing Alec Goodchild would have considered. Consequently, his mentioning a visit to the family doctor sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine. Without waiting for further explanation from him, he asked, “You're not sick are you Adam?” Noticing somewhat belatedly as he did so that his son did look pretty run down.
Catching the note of worried concern in his father's voice, Adam was quick to reassure him, “Good heavens no, sorry I didn't mean to give you a fright, the fact is I've been sleeping badly and having the most awful nightmares so I went for a check up.”
With relief showing on his face his father asked, “So what did Donald have to say?”
For a moment the question was lost on Adam, “Do you know Dad I’d forgotten his name was Donald,” then realizing he was straying from the point, he apologized, “sorry, not a lot really, he said I’d probably been overworking and that I need a complete rest, hence the holiday.”
Although not entirely convinced by his son's scant explanation, Goodchild senior decided to keep the conversation light, whilst attempting to probe a little deeper, “Are you sure that it isn't more serious than you're telling me my lad? I know you, you can be a secretive devil when you've a mind, and you wouldn't take a holiday at the drop of a hat.” No sooner had he spoken, Alec Goodchild began to worry that his probing may have gone too far by suggesting that his son kept things from him.
The sudden change in direction caught Adam unawares, causing him to mumble, “Errm... never could fool you could I? Actually that is really it as far as the Doc was concerned, he did take a blood sample as he reckoned I might be a bit anaemic, but I promise you that's all.”
His father made to speak, but Adam held a finger to his lips, beckoning him to say nothing as he caught a glimpse through the open door of his mother returning.
“Dinner won't be long, so what were the pair of you talking about?” asked Marjorie Goodchild.
“This and that,” said Adam half truthfully. “Mostly we were just talking about this trip to the States that I'm taking.”
“You're going to America?” asked his mother “isn't that going to be expensive, dear?”
“Well yes it is a bit, but I haven't had a real holiday in years, and I've been putting the money by for just such a chance, so I thought what the heck, enjoy it while you can. My boss agreed that I should have a break as I haven’t take a holiday for the last couple of years, so I had no problem getting the time off work.”
“Well I'm sure you know what's best dear, but it's a long way to go.” Her concern as much tinged by her own fear of flying as anything else. Getting up from the sofa on which she’s settled bare moments before saying that she had to finish getting the meal ready, she left the room.
An awkward silence fell with his mother’s departure, until a few minutes later and with his father still somewhat confused by the conversation, Mrs Goodchild’s summons to eat prevented them from further discussion.
Throughout the meal, the talk was of generalities, the forthcoming holiday, his work, his father's garden and of course, his mother's blatant questioning about Adam's solitary existence. Inevitably, she asked the one question he most dreaded, the one about ‘when was he going to find a nice girl and settle down’. As invariably happened, despite his attempts to sidetrack her she ploughed on with her usual comments about how he was good looking, intelligent, had a good job, and would make a good husband for any girl.
Embarrassed by her remarks, both for himself and for their son, his father came to his rescue, “Leave the boy be, Marjorie, he'll marry when he's ready, after all I was thirty-five when I married you.” Adam was grateful for his father's intervention, which worked as it always had on similar previous occasions, causing his mother to drop the matter. He accepted her words were well intentioned, just as he knew that if he wanted to he could manage his work involvement, but for the present, he didn’t feel ready to make the sort of commitment his mother was suggesting.
Having eaten an excellent meal despite Adam’s late invitation, his mother being a first class cook who took such events in her stride, the three set to clearing the table. At the insistence of his wife, who assured them she was happy to do the dishes; Alec and his son went out into the garden. For a few minutes, they just wandered around inspecting first one plant then another, before finally impatience getting the better of him, Alec Goodchild spoke.
“I think it's high time for some sort of explanation, don't you Adam?” he asked.
Adam held his peace for a long moment, weighing up the options of whether or not to challenge his father about the need for explanations or admit to having some additional reason for his visit. Finally facing him he said, “To be honest Dad I'm not sure where to start. As I said, I have been sleeping badly, and three times now have had the most frightening and real dreams. I woke up this morning after the latest one, absolutely convinced I wasn't in my home. It wasn't like a normal dream, I felt thoroughly drained by it.”
Concern on his face, the older man looked at his son as if expecting to see something, some clue to what it was that was troubling Adam. Unsurprisingly, all he could see on closer inspection was that he did look very tired. “What was it about the dreams that worried you so much, was it always the same dream?”
“It was until this afternoon,” said Adam his tone almost wistful as thoughts of the beautiful images returned. “I was in some strange land, pursued by a huge creature, next minute I'm on a barren plain where there were thousands of burned bodies, it was horrible.”
“You say the dream was the same one until today, what was different about it?”
“That's the strangest thing of all. When I got home from seeing Doc Andrews and making my holiday arrangements, I went out into the garden, I was going to have a sandwich and read a book. I guess the warmth of the sun and lack of sleep last night got to be too much. Anyway, I nodded off. I must have slept for some time, but at some point I started to see these images.” Thinking how best to describe what he saw; he had a sudden inspiration. “Do you remember me showing you those fractals on the computer I had at home here?”
For a moment his father looked confused until he remembered, “You mean all those swirling colours and patterns?”
Adam nodded, “Well the dream I had this afternoon was just like that, only there was something more, something I couldn't grasp at first. Whilst I saw these shifting patterns, there was something else that I couldn’t quite identify. Anyway, just as I was sure I would sort it out, the whole thing changed to a real jumble of ugly lines, a bit like interference on the T.V. only in more colour. After a time it steadied and I could see what it was I had missed before, only this time it had been damaged, it was then I knew what it was.” As if suddenly aware that what he was relating must sound more than a little crazy, he dried up averting his eyes from his father’s gaze that seemed to reflect a mixture of concern and uncertainty.
“Well are you going to tell me or keep me guessing?” asked his father, mild irritation evident in the question.
Adam turned to face his father, “No, I'll tell you, but I'm not sure you're going to believe me.”
“Adam... I'm doing my best to accept what you have said this far, knowing the rest of it can't make a lot of difference.”
“I guess you're right Dad, but it all sounds so damn far fetched. Anyway, as I say, this afternoon I recognized what it was that I saw, it was a crystal...”
“What do you mean a crystal?” interrupted his father, his voice suddenly demanding, harsh, as though fighting back some strong emotion.
“If you'll hang on a minute I'll tell you,” Adam replied his own irritation now clear, whilst catching the impatience in his father's words yet not registering the fear they contained. “It wasn't just any crystal,” he continued, “I'm sure of that, no it was a scrying crystal, you know a crystal ball.”
For an instant, Alec Goodchild looked like a man who had just seen a ghost. All the colour drained from his face, as he stood unspeaking, his eyes glazed and unseeing. Before Adam could react, his father seemed to pass from his trance, uttering just three words. “Oh my Lord!” then adding more to himself than to his son, “not another one, in God's name why?”
Shaken by his father's behaviour and by his obvious anxiety, Adam was suddenly afraid. He felt immediate concern for his father's wellbeing yet was equally worried by what his dad had meant by his reference to another one. Watching his father, Adam could see that although clearly disturbed by whatever memories his mentioning the crystal had recalled, he didn't appear to be in any physical danger, so had to ask, “What do you mean Dad, not another one?”
Visibly trying to compose himself the older man said nothing and moved off farther down the garden. Following in his wake, although desperate for an answer, Adam kept quiet; hoping his father would offer some explanation. When they were at the end of the garden, in the small orchard there, both men stopped.
For a moment neither spoke, then as he slowly began to wander amid the trees prompting his son to follow Alec Goodchild said, “It's a long story Adam, and one I hoped never to have to repeat, but in view of what you've told me I think that I'd better explain.”
Absent-mindedly plucking a leaf from the low branch of a tree as he passed it, he repeatedly wound it round one of his fingers letting it unwind as he continued. “It was nearly sixty years ago, in fact I was only nine years old, and I wasn't told the whole story until much later. It seems that my father, your grandfather, had been in the habit of dabbling in the occult. Although it was all thought to be quite harmless in the early stages, it became something of an obsession. Finally, he had a complete breakdown and ended up being institutionalized. The reason I mention it now is that he used what he called a scrying crystal, even claiming to have seen other worlds in it.”
“But I know about the crystal,” exclaimed Adam, “if you recall Grandma gave it to me as a boy, but when I moved out I left it here with you and Mum.”
“I know, and I was damn glad you did. With what had happened all those years ago I didn't want you having the blessed thing around. I probably should have got rid of the damn thing years ago, I had no reason to hang on to it, but stupidly I didn’t, it’s still indoors somewhere. Now it seems you've been having the same sort of dreams my father claimed to have seen as visions in it.”
Without intending to, Adam realized he had hurt his father, and that his yet unspoken request could only add to the distress. Trying hard to find the right words, he knew that for him to ask for the crystal now could only be construed in one way. That he had to have it, not simply to fulfil a whim, for if that had been the case he would have gladly turned his back on it in view of what he had just heard. No, it was not that easy, he needed it; his desire to get his hands on the scrying crystal was suddenly almost overwhelming.
As if reading his son's mind, his father asked, “That's as much the reason for your coming here today as to tell us you were going away, isn't it Adam?” Hesitating for a moment, as if about to deny it, Adam finally just nodded his head. “I suppose trying to talk you out of it wouldn't do any good would it, and even if I did I suspect you would only get hold of another crystal somewhere?”
“I'm really sorry Dad, I had no idea about Granddad, but you're right about the crystal. I’ve no intention of messing around with it, to be honest I’m not sure what I am going to do with it, but I'm convinced it has something to do with these dreams I've been having.”
“Okay, despite it going against my better judgement I'll let you have it, although I can’t see how it will help with the dreams, but there’s one condition... well two actually,” he corrected.
Already guessing what one of the conditions would be, Adam agreed, “Don't worry Dad, I won't tell Mum, and I promise I won't try anything silly with it. I noticed there's a shop in town selling crystals and suchlike, you know incense, odd coloured candles and so on, I thought I'd go and see if anyone there can give me some advice on how they reckon these things work. What was the second condition?”
“That no matter what, if you start imagining you can see things in it, you’ll bring it straight back!” This last Alec felt sure was a forlorn hope, aware as he was that this was the very purpose to which a scrying crystal was put, yet he felt driven to impose it.
Adam stared hard at his father knowing that he couldn’t make such a promise, yet felt he had to make some sort of concession. “If I start to see things as you put it, I promise I’ll come and talk to you.”
“I guess I can’t ask for more,” conceded his father.
With the discussion apparently over, father and son headed back towards the house in the gathering gloom of the evening. Settled in front of the television, Mrs Goodchild had long finished the washing up after their meal and was watching one of her favourite quiz shows.
“Hello you two, have a pleasant chat dear?” she asked over her shoulder addressing the question to her husband.
“Yes thanks,” he replied, and although no further explanation had been solicited by his wife added somewhat lamely, “Adam has been telling me about his trip.”
