Into Dreams: A Gina Harwood Novel (Gina Harwood Series Book 3) Page 11

  "When you say a lot of time..." prompted Gina questioningly.

  "Three days to Calephais. Probably more than a week to either of the other cities." Kyrri looked miserable. "Stupid King," he muttered.

  Gina nodded. "Makes you feel any better, I've never been on a ship before," she shared, leaning down. "I've only seen the ocean a handful of times, and all in the last few years. I lived most of my life in a landlocked state."

  "Lucky," snorted Kyrri, but he looked a little more cheerful.

  The busty barmaid swooped behind the bar carrying two large, overloaded plates and set them in front of the travelers. "Roast beef again tonight," she explained apologetically. "But the potatoes are real good."

  "Mmmmm," purred Kyrri, sitting straight up and breathing in the smell of the food.

  "Thank you," replied Gina, looking around for cutlery. "Do you have a fork?"

  The woman stared at her blankly. "Use your hands," murmured Kyrri. "They just use their hands here."

  "Uh... okay. Never mind, thanks." Gina picked up a chunk of tender beef and gingerly bit into it. The meat was bland, but tasted fresh, and her stomach rumbled its thanks.

  "It's almost like you two are talking to each other," laughed Bree, shaking her head wonderingly and staring at Kyrri. "Cute. Your room is ready, it's the second door to the left."

  Gina nodded her appreciation and continued eating. Kyrri watched the woman until she left the bar area in silence. "Let's wait until we get back to the room to talk any more," whispered Kyrri in a barely-audible flutter. Gina nodded slightly, unnerved by being called out by a barmaid. Kyrri had said it was unusual for Men to know the Cat's tongue, and she knew she already drew attention by looking and acting differently, more so by traveling with Kyrri. Not for the first time, the enormity of her task hung over her, pressing its weight on her heart. She pushed the gnawing guilt away and concentrated on her dinner. The barmaid was right - the potatoes were perfect.

  21

  The night was long, and sleep wouldn't come for Morgan Snyder. His foot pounded in pain, and he had no way of marking the passing time, if it was passing at all. Once or twice he managed to drop off into short, fitful sleeps, but each time some windblown blade of grass would touch his bare skin, or he would imagine the ground trembling again, or something equally inane would startle him out of his sleep. He guessed he didn't manage to get more than five or ten solid minutes asleep for the entire night, even though the constant waves crashing beneath him lulled his eyes closed again as soon as he opened them. And there was also the problem of water.

  Morgan was thirsty. He had no way of knowing how much time he had spent lying on that cliff before regaining consciousness, wasting precious moisture with every sleeping breath - an hour? a day? he wondered. If I last the night, water's my first priority. The ocean continued its thrashing behind him, reminding him just how much water lay out of reach. His throat ached from dry swallowing, making him wonder again exactly how long he might have lain. He clasped his left foot in his hands and turned it over, inspecting the gash he'd incurred during his run for cover earlier. The bleeding had stopped, but the ground beneath him was stained with red. Precious moisture, he thought, chagrined. He could see dirt particles in and around the wound, which surprised him; he looked up and realized everything was just a little bit lighter. "Dawn!" he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, scanning his surroundings with new light. His mind was racing. He had a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it; he figured he'd need to be off this open plain before any friends of whatever he saw last night came around. He'd be easy prey.

  Leaning around the rock, he noticed with relief that all of the jagged objects he could currently see did appear to be rocks, and he wondered if he had hallucinated the lumbering giant the night before. He spied a tall, fern-leafed plant near the next closest rock, and clenched his fists, psyching himself into action. He needed to move carefully, but he didn't want to be vulnerable and in the open any longer than he absolutely needed to be. He glanced around one last time, looking for a stick or anything he could put his weight on instead of his injured foot, but saw nothing. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up to standing and steadied himself against his home rock, visualizing his path to the next. Taking a deep breath, he pushed off of the rock and began hobbling across the grassy field. The pain was intense, but behind that was a different kind of throbbing, a heartbeat, a primal sort of almost-pain that indicated his body knew that death was closer than it would like. Morgan allowed his speed to increase a bit, but pulled it back before he broke into a run. I can't panic again, not like I did last night, or I will die. The certainty of this thought scared him, a deep fear that shot through his spine.

  He slid in behind his target rock and sat on the ground. Make this quick, and then it's got to be into that forest, he thought, eyeing the line of trees about fifty feet away. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll find a spring. Morgan glanced at his foot, which had resumed bleeding slowly, and decide that maybe luck wasn't the best thing on which to rely. He grabbed a fistful of fern leaves and quickly pressed them against the cut, tying them clumsily around the top of his foot and his ankle. He grabbed more, criss-crossing the long, flat leaves loosely and carefully to try to keep his makeshift footpad steady. His throat felt covered in dust. His left foot looked like a potted plant now, but it seemed to be holding. His gaze turned to his right foot, unscathed but still uncovered. The thrum of thirst was high-pitched and constant, and he quickly weighed the time it would take to cover his other foot versus using the extra minutes to search for water. Morgan reached over and tore off several new fern leaves, and draped them over his neck. Water first, and then he would make a shoe, he decided.

  Pushing himself back up to standing, he tested his makeshift shoe on the ground. It did little to stop the pain, but at least the wound would be better covered. Alright, he thought, fifty feet. I can do fifty feet. He pushed off of the new rock and limped toward the trees.

  He thought he saw a rock move on the other side of the field, but he was committed now, and he pressed on harder toward the trees.

  Morgan reached the tree line and pushed on, determined. The trees had thin, peeling bark and the leaves were waxy. The forest floor was a sea of dead leaves, and Morgan sank into them with every step, watching with trepidation as his feet disappeared beneath the loose ground cover. He could still hear the roar of the ocean, but there was a different sound here too, a tinkling sound. He continued downhill toward a thick line of tall grasses and large boulders, singleminded.

  Just beyond the boulder he was leaning against was a good-sized, shallow stream cutting its way through the rocky ground, with several gently cascading waterfalls as it wound its way down towards the ocean. He crawled over the boulder, grinning at the change in luck, and dipped his hand in the water. It was cold and liquid and perfect. Draping himself across the rock, he plunged both hands into the stream and cupped them, bringing the water up to his lips.

  "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

  Startled by the voice, Morgan jerked to the side and rolled off of the boulder, landing in the stream with a splash. A man sat on a tree root on the opposite side of the stream, but Morgan blinked, trying to assimilate the visual information he was receiving. The stranger wasn't exactly a man. He had fur on his legs, which ended in hooves instead of feet, and he had white horns protruding from his skull that curled to a point. His upper body looked like a particularly hairy human, except for the horns, and he was puffing on a carved black pipe. "I mean, you can do whatever you want. You're naked in a stream. But I wouldn't drink any of that water." He chortled to himself.

  Morgan looked longingly at water streaming past him and he lifted himself back into a crouch. The water only came up to his calf, but it was tantalizingly clear and lovely. "Why not?" Morgan asked hoarsely, his dry tongue clacking against his soft palate. You're hallucinating, he assured himself, it's just dehydration. It happens. That could just be a man talking to me, or maybe he's not there at all.
Morgan thought back to his mythology. Pan? No, Pan carried a flute. The half-man tossed a stone into the water, which skipped twice before sinking near Morgan, and reached behind him to retrieve a panpipe, which he set on the boulder beside him. Morgan gaped at him.

  "Don't you know where you are?" scoffed “Pan.”

  Morgan tried to clear his throat. "No," he admitted.

  "The Arcadian Cliffs, stupid human," admonished the half-man. "In the South?" he added in response to Morgan's lack of recognition. "The Sunrise Shores? Shores of Madness? Is any of this ringing a bell?" Pan shook his head in disbelief.

  "I have to have water," answered Morgan lamely. His head was throbbing and he sat down in the stream again as his legs gave out. "Very thirsty."

  "Well, don't drink that," replied Pan, pulling a large canteen bottle from behind the tree root. "Drink this if you're so thirsty." He thrust it towards Morgan, extending his arm out. "Here."

  Morgan tried to stand, but his legs were having none of it, so he crawled across the river rocks until he could reach the offering. "Thanks," he moaned, unscrewing the top and guzzling the water.

  "Yeah, no problem. The river water will make you go crazy. See things, hear things, most people die. This place is bad enough without adding water-insanity to it. It's real bad." Pan stood up and hopped into the stream, his hooves clacking on the stones.

  "Mm," vocalized Morgan, half-listening as he gulped down the cold water. His body screamed its thanks at him.

  "Never ever drink the water. It will seriously fuck you up," the half-man admonished, crouching beside Morgan and taking back his now empty canteen. "Of course," he added with a toothy grin. "So will mine."

  Morgan shook his head in confusion and looked up at the half-man. "What?"

  "Oh, I just filled that canteen out of this river. Doesn't affect me, you see."

  "Why would you...?"

  "I like to have a little fun before the Shores takes their tribute," Pan reached down and ruffled his hair. "Get to know you. At least say hello, you know, in a neighborly sort of way. It makes watching you come apart at the seams much more fun."

  Sharp pain stabbed at him, and Morgan doubled over. "Poison?" he spat.

  "No, no. The pain is temporary. It'll pass. Probably." Pan splashed down into a sitting position and propped his head up on his hands, his elbows on his furry thighs. He leaned forward and stared into Morgan's face with a smile. "See anything yet?"

  Morgan looked up. Pan's wide smiling teeth had been replaced by jagged, sharp fangs that lined his entire mouth, and seemed to stretch wider as Morgan watched, blinking. His eyes were holes that seemed to have their own gravity. "Nope," growled Morgan.

  "Ugh, you're boring." Pan leapt to his feet and jumped gracefully back to his tree root. "I'll come say hello a little later, when the madness has really set in. Oh, and feel free to drink your fill, friend. I don’t think it’ll matter much now," he added with a chuckle. "Ta-ta!"

  Another series of sharp pains sent Morgan into a fetal position, the water rushing past his face. He writhed in the stream and screamed at the sky.

  22

  "You're dying."

  Morgan grimaced, doubled over on his side, the pain too intense to open his eyes. The sounds of the forest and the stream were gone, replaced by silence, except for the resonating echo of the words spoken. The voice was familiar, though, and he cracked one eye open through the pain. "Charlie?" he managed to croak, before another cramp caused him to heave.

  Charlie Parker sat on a black chair in the small black room, illuminated by a cold white spotlight. She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them, giving Morgan a view he might appreciate if it did not, in fact, feel like he were dying. "Hello, Snyder," she purred, clicking her stiletto heel against the concrete floor in an odd, syncopated rhythm.

  "Where..." His question was interrupted by another irresistable heave, and red-streaked vomit flew across the floor.

  Charlie clucked her disapproval. "Where are you? Do you want the real answer?" she asked.

  Morgan glared at her, his vision tinted red, and nodded.

  "Lying in a hospital bed in a coma from whatever attacked you," she answered simply, sashaying across the room to stand over him. "Weak," she spat to the side. "Your weakness is disgusting." Morgan felt her heeled foot nudge him in the ribs and closed his eyes as another spasm wracked his body. "But your spirit is elsewhere, and wherever you are, well... you're dying." She crouched and placed her hand under his jaw, forcibly tilting it upward until his bloodshot eyes were meeting her gaze. "Ask me if I care," she whispered, her blood-red lips curled upwards into a cruel smile.

  Morgan snapped his head away and curled into a tighter ball around his midsection, which felt as though it were being stabbed repeatedly with frozen knives. "You're not real," he gasped, gritting his teeth as the spasm passed and the pain lessened slightly.

  "I don't," she replied, ignoring his outburst to answer her own question. "I don't care a bit. Harwood still does - for now - but how many times does she have to save you until she gets it into her thick skull?" She turned her head, and her sharp profile cast a long shadow against the light. Another cramp started and Morgan clenched up, screwing his eyes closed. "We could kill you with a thought on a bad day. You don't belong here."

  He concentrated on a tiny noise, a tiny sound that didn't fit the scene. It was a drip-drip-drip of water, dripping to the same beat that Charlie kept clicking her heels, and he concentrated on it until it became a crescendo. "You're not real!" he shouted, opening his eyes. He was lying in a grassy clearing a good thirty feet from the stream, and the dripping noise he'd heard was rain hitting a puddle near his head. The cramp hit him full force and he grunted, dragging his head through the puddle as he curled around himself.

  "Well, that was enlightening!" Pan reappeared along the edge of the clearing and leapt over to Morgan, squatting in front of him and clapping his hands cheerily. "That woman is intense," he said with wide eyes, mock-mopping his brow with the back of his hand. "And she sure didn't seem to like you."

  Morgan panted with the effort it took not to pass out. "Fuck off," he coughed.

  "And miss the show?" Pan laughed gleefully. "No, no, my dear sir! I wouldn't miss it for the world." His head danced in Morgan's vision, warping into colors and clouds before coalescing into a strange semi-solid mass whenever he spoke. "You are a puzzle, yes, a puzzle. And I like puzzles." He gestured at his own body, and his hand left perfect tracers as it passed through the air. Morgan blinked, but they remained. "For instance, what is this form? I like it, but it's unfamiliar to me..." Pan leapt up and stomped his hooves before crouching back down. "It's so graceful and easy. What is my name?"

  Morgan coughed weakly, and his spittle flew up instead of down, glowing off and on like fireflies on an autumn evening. "How would I know?" he growled.

  "No, no, to you. How do you refer to me, when you think of me? What's my name?" Pan leaned down close to Morgan's face, regarding him curiously.

  Morgan groaned and rolled onto his back, sweating and cold. "Pan."

  "Pan!" exclaimed Pan, sounding delighted. "Oh, I like that, too." He clapped his hands together joyously. "I feel you deserve something special, my good man. Something worthwhile for making me so happy." Pan reached down and placed his furry hand on Morgan's stomach, and the pain subsided immediately. Morgan blinked his raw eyes and took a deep breath.

  "Thanks," he said, enjoying the sensation of breathing without pain.

  "Thanks?" scoffed Pan. "Is that all I get? Ungracious swine. See you in the next scene." He snapped his fingers and disappeared from view.

  "Yeah, that's all you get," coughed Morgan, pulling himself up to all fours. The pain was gone, but his mind was still reeling and his body exhausted from exertion, the clearing stretching and contracting around him. He crawled a few feet away from the vomit and lay in the rain, breathing weakly. You're dying, he heard Charlie say again, and he closed his eyes and let his consciousness float away. You don't be
long and you're dying.

  23

  "Okay, Gina-Dreamer," Kyrri trotted through the door and slid it shut with his back leg. "I think I found us a boat."

  "Really?" asked Gina. "That seemed easy."

  Kyrri shrugged. "We're still close enough to Ulthar that there's one or two Cats that call Hlanith home," he said, leaping up on the bed. "There's a crew sailing across Middle Ocean that'll be leaving this week, and the boat looks big enough to book passage for the right price."

  "Are they going to Calephais? Or one of the other cities you mentioned?"

  "I don't know for sure. No Men in Hlanith speak our tongue that I know of, and the Cats I met had no interest in ships. You'll have to go meet with the captain to find out more. The Cats say he is called Gage." Kyrri laid his head on his paws. "It can wait until morning, though, if you want."

  That gnawing guilt pit reminded Gina of her current inactivity. "Nope. Let's go."

  The Cat leaped to the floor and opened the door for her to pass through. He trotted ahead of her without a word, waiting for her to exit the inn before heading to the right down the long promenade. Gina saw lines of white tents set up on the black beach, lit with by large campfires tended to by large men. All of the men seemed large here, muscular and sinewy and tall. "What do I say?" asked Gina, suddenly extremely nervous.

  "Just tell him the truth, I guess," replied Kyrri, and Gina was pretty sure that would be a bad idea.

  She followed Kyrri closely until he stopped in front of a predictably large, burly man sitting on a log and nursing a stein of ale. "Announcing Gina Harwood, Dreamer, and Friend of the Cats of Ulthar," meowed Kyrri, and the Men erupted in laughter.