WARNING: This story and all others included in "Dreams of Reality" are copyrighted to FuryKyriel, 1997. Any unauthorized publication of this material will be prosecuted.

Blood and Water





(Part Two of Five)

    The full moon, riding high over the mast tip when I left the bar, did nothing to take my mind off Enric. It only made me wonder if the lunar cycle affected his change. But I was tired of pondering; I just wanted to be -- for a while, at least. Sighing, I tried to focus on my surroundings instead of my worries. The breeze was cool and crisp, tangy with salt; and gentle waves lapped at the bows beneath me. Further on, a billion tiny sea-creatures cast phosphorescent nets across the water. I was in heaven, if I could only appreciate it. And part of me did ache to dive overboard right now, to fly through the glowing water and swim in the shimmering clouds. Unfortunately, I was too close to other people to chance it. If I was seen, or even missed, I'd be stuck flying the rest of the way to Rael.
    And with that unpleasant thought came a twinge of hunger which, combined with my frustration at Enric, completed the souring of my mood. I grumbled my way down into the hold to find a rat.
   
    The scowling man was in the dining hall when I entered the next morning. His scruffy robe -- brown today -- and his hair -- a snarl of grizzled gray that petered out just above the ears -- gave him the appearance of a disgraced monk. But the last night's kill and a restful sleep had mellowed my mood, and I barely gave him a glance before moving on to the serving window. Bephel, the head chef, was a minor magician who worked in edibles, and I loved to watch her at her job. Crumbs of magic fell from her spoon as she stirred, and snapped from the bacon as it fried. Patiently I waited for her to turn, then gave her a cheerful greeting and selected a sampling for my meal. "Go on, child -- have a little more!" the cook urged, flashing her dimples at me. "It's specially prepared to keep the pounds away."'
    I laughed. "Bephel," I said, more sincerely than she knew, "I wish I could take you home with me!" Another handful of bacon found its way onto my plate.
    No sooner had I taken a seat than there came a scuffling and muttering from across the room. The scowling man was on his way toward my table, his expression anything but friendly. I nodded a greeting and kept on with my breakfast.
    "Well," he sniffed, stopping several feet away from my table, "you're certainly looking pleased with yourself this morning."
    I raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"
    The stranger allowed himself a bitter smile. "When I saw you last night in the saloon, you looked a bit, shall we say...unsatisfied? But this morning, you're as chipper as a kitten with a mouse." His voice dropped slyly. "Or was it a rat?"
    He couldn't have seen me, I thought, praying that the surprise on my face would mask the guilt. I never saw anyone the whole time I was down there, and I know I checked carefully.
    The stranger's eyes stayed locked on mine, mocking, insinuating. "My name is Doctor Bruun," he said, everything in his bearing suggesting challenge. But before I could respond, he had stalked on out the door.
   
    That gray, sour face hung in my mind all morning; but, fortunately, it didn't live there alone. Every time my thoughts strayed from Bruun, they turned to Enric: the werewolf's warm smile, his enthusiasm for Tolkien, the stray locks of hair that hung down around his eyes. You're getting mushy on me, girl, I told myself, but I couldn't quite get rid of the feeling; and if I had to choose between "mush" and bitterness, I'd choose the mush any day. When I saw Enric the next afternoon, leaning against a rail and watching the waves, I didn't try to avoid him.
    The werewolf looked up as I approached, but rather than speaking, he laid a finger to his lips and pointed out at the waves. There was a school of dolphins playing not a hundred feet off our bow -- and something else, too. The first thing I saw was a tail: silver-white and glinting like polished armor. But it quickly rolled out of sight, and up came a woman's head: long, dark hair fanning out behind her. She looked right at me, cinnamon-brown eyes bright with amusement; then she winked at Enric, waved, and was gone. The dolphins quickly followed.
    "I guess it was you she came to see," I said teasingly.
    Enric laughed, then looked thoughtful. "I think she might have been a dual."
    "What makes you say that?"
    "I don't know, just a hunch." He cocked an elbow over the railing and looked my way. "It's something I like to think about: what kind of people become duals, where they go when they cross over. Why should we assume they're all land-bound?"
    "I don't know," I admitted. "I guess you can have just as much adventure in the ocean as on land."
    "It all depends on what kind of adventure you're looking for. For instance, has it ever occurred to you that there might be duals in R1 as well as R2?"
    "You mean R2 natives taking on a second identity in R1?" It was an idea I'd never considered.
    "Why not?" Enric shrugged. "R2 turns our dreams into reality, giving people like us access to magic, talking animals, wizards, dwarves and dragons. But there could be people here who dream of just the opposite."
    "Of course!" I gasped as the idea took root in my mind. "People who want order and stability and technology...."
    "Reason and progress," the werewolf finished. "The dream tunnel functions as an escape valve for one world; why not two?"
    "It makes sense." I thought for a moment, then laughed. "All right, then, who do you think are the duals in R1? They'd have to be prominent people; most of us here get reputations pretty quickly."
    "I agree." He turned around and leaned back against the railing, squinting skyward. "This is all just speculation, of course," he said slowly.
    "Of course," I smiled. It was obvious that, for Enric, anyway, it had gone far beyond speculation.
    "I'd start with major world leaders, military heroes, and the like."
    "Like Norman Schwartzkopf!" I answered quickly.
    "Napoleon, Alexander the Great."
    "But why stop at warriors and politicians?" I challenged. "What about great inventors, business leaders, famous athletes? Bill Gates and Michael Jordan, for example."
    "Or actors and actresses," Enric shot back. "Lawrence Olivier, Elizabeth Taylor."
    Then a new thought struck me. "There's just one problem," I sighed as the dream deflated. "We had no trouble establishing our identity in R2 when we appeared out of nowhere, because no one here keeps records. But you can't get anywhere in R1 without a birth certificate, social security number, employment history...."
    Enric shrugged again, completely unperturbed. "I've thought of that too," he said casually, and paused long enough to be sure he'd peaked my interest. "The Guardians fitted us for this world, didn't they? They gave us clothes, abilities, a choice of entrances into the dreamworld. Who's to say they couldn't provide a background for duals entering R1?"
    "But lives are a lot harder to manufacture than clothes," I countered.
    "True, but these are the Guardians we're talking about, after all. They manage to keep our timelines intact whether we spend days or weeks or months in a single reality. Who's to say they can't create a timeline from scratch, or rush a person through it to the point in their lives where they really do enter R1?"
    I nodded as I thought it over. "Their past would be real, their memories would be real; but from their perspective, it would all have taken place in an instant. I like it."
    "I thought you might." Enric grinned.
    After that there was a peaceful silence as we stared out across the water, maybe hoping to see the mermaid again and ask her opinion. But when my companion turned around, his expression had changed. "Kyriel, do you know a man with frizzy gray hair, calls himself a doctor?"
    "The monk?" I laughed, a little nervously. "His name is Bruun. I met him this morning."
    This time the joke went unreturned. "He knows far too much about you," Enric said soberly, "and he doesn't mean any good by it. I think he might be planning to kill you."
    I was surprised but not exactly shocked. "How do you know?" I asked carefully.
    Enric frowned. "He had a little chat with me the other night in the bar, after you left. First, he wanted to know what you and I had talked about. When I told him it was none of his business, he said I'd better keep away from you if I wanted to live. But he wasn't threatening to kill me, you understand; he said you were the monster, and it was only a matter of time before you showed your true nature. Then people would start to die."
    "That's ridiculous," I snorted, but I couldn't deny a growing unease.
    "Of course it's ridiculous," the werewolf agreed. "I can smell you for what you really are. But Bruun can't, and yet somehow he knows enough to peg you as a supernatural."
    "In which case he should have pegged you, too," I shot back, but Enric shook his head.
    "Not if his knowledge is psychically-based. I'm immune, remember?"
    My mouth snapped shut as the doubts began. Here it was again, the story I hadn't believed in the bar. Should I trust it now? If Enric was telling the truth, I had an ally I couldn't refuse. But if he was lying, I had two enemies -- who might even be working together against me. For a second I thought of leaving the Naronica, diving overboard as I'd imagined myself doing two nights before, and flying the rest of the way to Rael. But that was the coward's way out, and besides, things weren't all that grim -- not yet.
    I decided to trust the werewolf...for the moment, anyway. "All right," I sighed, "so what does that gifted nose of yours tell you about Bruun?"
    If Enric had picked up any of my internal debate, he didn't mention it. "First of all," he answered readily, "He's fully human. Second, even if he's not telling the whole truth about you, he believes he is. There was no smell of deception on him, but there was a hint of something I might call 'instability.' He's definitely neurotic, maybe even crazy. And his clothes have a strong odor of herbs, but whether he smokes them or uses them for medicinal purposes, I don't know."
    "Is he a dual?"
    "I can't tell that by smell, but my guess is he's local talent. I've never met a dual who didn't enjoy their lot in life, but it's almost like this guy is eating himself up from the inside out."
    "I got the same feeling," I nodded, and chewed my lip in silence. This was terrible: I couldn't even take a cruise without putting myself into a life-or-death situation -- and this kind was the worst of all. Caught between a maybe-friend and a definite enemy, the only thing I could do was wait. It wasn't something I was particularly good at.
   
    We met our first gale later that week. It came on late one afternoon, swooping down from a bruise-colored sky and frothing the waves into mountains. Within its grip the Naronica shuttled like a roller coaster between the peaks and valleys. But no matter the size of the waves -- and they were huge -- the ship never even listed; and never a drop of water hit its decks. The spell front was a masterpiece, sheeting off water like a windshield and taming hurricane-force winds into breezes. Saint Elmo's fire crackled at its edges and danced to the tune of Uto's singing. For through it all the captain never moved. Firmly planted behind the wheel, he faced the gale with flashing teeth, flying hair, and an endless repertoire of bawdy songs.
    Other than Uto, the decks were mostly deserted. A skeleton crew kept watch over the non-magical elements of the ship, and about twenty of the boldest passengers had gathered at the prow to watch the waves. Each wall of water seemed bigger than the last, and we cheered to see them dash themselves to pieces.
    Inevitably, though, watching paled as a form of entertainment. Then one of the youngest spectators, a wild-eyed teen with a headful of copper braids, scrambled up onto the railing in an attempt to touch the water. A flurry of hands flew up to help her, but she brushed them off and perched there, birdlike, one hand outstretched toward the waves. Unfortunately, her effort didn't get her very far. The further the girl reached beyond the railing, the more her motion slowed, until she was brought up short before she'd fully extended her arm. I couldn't help but smile at the look on her face; clearly, this was a young woman unused to defeat. Frowning a little, she drew back and thrust her hand in again, harder this time. It was no use. The spell wall was stronger than she was.
    Then came the jeers from her companions -- safely ensconced on the deck, of course. The girl's expression changed. Where before she'd been almost pouting, now her face grew sly and reckless. "You want more?" she asked, her eyes flashing wickedly.
    "Yeah!" the others cried.
    "You got it!" And before anyone could stop her, the girl turned around and leaped overboard.
    There was a second of screaming confusion, as we rushed the railing en masse, dreading what we might -- or might not -- see. But even as we reached the edge, the girl came bouncing back onto the ship, hitting the deck with a knee-jarring thud. "Woo hoo!" She pumped her fist and tossed her braids, completely unaffected by the fright she'd caused. "What a ride!"
    After that it was only a matter of time before her friends joined in, and soon it became a contest to see who could jump the highest, sink the deepest, spring back the farthest from the rubbery spell wall. After the first "launch" or two most of the spectators stopped worrying and started to enjoy the sport -- myself included. After all, I thought, why should I be the only one around here to experience flight?
    I'd been watching the kids for about ten minutes when I heard the familiar voice: "You're just dying to try it out yourself, aren't you?"
    I turned and smiled. "I guess you can smell my excitement, huh?"
    "And see it," Enric smiled. "So why don't you go ahead? No one's stopping you."
    "My age is stopping me," I laughed. "I'd look like an idiot up there with those kids."
    Enric lifted my braid and pretended to study it. "Nope," he shrugged after a long moment, "no gray hairs here." He winked. "You're officially allowed to be silly."
    There was no denying I was tempted. I met his teasing gaze and pulled myself up just short of nodding. "We-e-e-ll," I hedged, but it didn't take me long to break down -- not with another adult egging me on. "Okay, but only if--"
    "I go first?" Enric smiled. "Madam, I thought you'd never ask." He was at the rail in a second, flipping himself overboard in a hilarious, splay-legged somersault. The teenagers cheered.
    That was all it took to get me started. Enric hadn't even hit the deck before I passed him, and soon we had our own little competition going. Nothing could have been more exhilarating than leaping overboard into a pounding gale and bouncing back unharmed. The spell wall worked like a cushioned trampoline; the harder it was hit, the harder it threw us back. Enric, being heavier, took the early lead, but it wasn't long before I started using my wings for added push. Even they didn't do me much good, though. Any force strong enough to hold back a tidal wave wasn't going to cave in to a Fury.
    The game continued for nearly an hour, the gale for several more; but even after the storm was over, the spell front held firm. Soon it was a favorite source of recreation for the teenagers. As for me, though, my fascination soon turned to hate; for once the novelty had worn off, I realized how the magic bound me to the ship. And, of course, by then the murders had started.

On to Part Three



architectural friezes courtesy of Randy D. Ralph at the Icon Bazaar
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