Into Dreams: A Gina Harwood Novel (Gina Harwood Series Book 3) Read online

  Toma showed him the ropes, literally, pointing to the tie-off points that he would be using the adjust and haul in the nets on the sides of the vaka. “Don’t worry,” he said. His voice was unusually soft for such a large man, and he spoke with a slight lisp. “We all help haul in if they are heavy.”

  “Raise the mainsail,” barked Nevan, and the other two men hopped to, helping him loosen the light blue fabric and grabbing different areas of the boltrope to help hoist. They worked in well-practiced sync, reminding Morgan of a competitive pit crew, but their demeanor remained relaxed throughout. No one was in much of a rush, and they kept up a light banter during their work.

  “Papa!” yelled a young voice, and Morgan saw Ila standing on the dock, twisting her small hands.

  “Yes, light of my heart?” boomed Nevan between grunts as the men hoisted together.

  “Can I come and say goodbye to the Stranger?”

  Nevan tied off the boltrope and clasped a metal link to hold it in place. “Yes, but hurry. We’re about to leave.”

  Ila jumped gracefully onto the ship and ran up to Morgan, hugging him tightly. She slipped something into his hands and he looked down, surprised, to see a thin pair of sandals. “I stole these from the storeroom,” she whispered. “I thought they might fit.”

  He smiled down at her and thanked her genuinely, setting immediately to strapping the leather on his feet.

  “Time to go now, Ila,” reminded Nevan, and she threw herself at him for a final hug before leaping back onto the dock.

  “Nets are secure,” called the giant from across the ship. Morgan did his best to stay out of the way, leaning in the doorway of the ship’s structure while Nevan and Toma pushed the sail into position to tack against the wind, and Ila tossed the remaining moorline back to the vaka as it began to float into the waves. The ship tossed in the breakers and Morgan pressed his arms against the doorway, holding himself steady in the frame. He could see Ila on the docks, her brother Nopah walking up behind her to check that she was okay. She was waving frantically at the departing vaka and jumping up and down.

  “TEN DAYS PAPA!” she called.

  “I will count!” he called back, motioning for Toma to help him raise the jib.

  “GOOD BYE MORGAN!” she yelled and Nevan turned to look at him with a wink and a smile. Morgan laughed, surprised, and managed a wave before a breaker made him resume his brace position.

  “Thank you, Ila,” yelled Morgan, and he felt awash with sadness. He had grown to enjoy the young girl’s company, her constant cheery chatter, her overly dramatic retellings of everything that happened on the island. Her pride over her groundchuck kill. He would miss her. “She’s a great kid,” he told Nevan, and the man’s chest puffed with pride.

  “Yes,” he said, grinning and waving back at her, barely visible as the vaka cut through the water. “She will be a strong warrior one day, like her mother. Her mind is swift.”

  It took another twenty minutes before Morgan was comfortable leaving his safe spot. The deck was flat, with no railing, and the ocean was less than calm. He gingerly hobbled over to Toma, who was patiently waiting for him at the first net. He noted that though there was no rail, there were small wooden rods, about six inches tall and four inches in diameter, that stuck out of the deck in regular intervals. Toma was sitting with one between his legs, a sort of moor to prevent him slipping off of the edge of the deck as he worked. Morgan carefully lowered himself into the same position at the next rod. It wasn’t comfortable, but it did give him a slight measure of security. The rods were evenly placed, about two feet apart, and he found that he could easily reach them from his seat if he needed to steady himself further.

  Morgan spent the day learning how to cast and reel in the nets, and transferring useful catches to the main hold. It was long work, and hard, but the sun was warm on his skin, the breeze cool, and he was peaceful and glad for such cheerful company. Nevan checked up on them occasionally, but mostly just swung around to crack jokes. Toma helped reel most of the nets in, and identified the fish and shellfish inside for Morgan, teaching him what a worthwhile size was for each type. Toma was a good storyteller, too, breaking up the time between their labor with tales of adventure on the high seas and in dangerous ports. Morgan wasn't familiar enough with the places he described to know how much was embellished. The day passed quickly, but even though the vaka seemed to slice effortlessly through the water, it didn’t seem like they’d traveled very far. They remained always in sight of the shore, for which Morgan was thankful. He didn’t think he’d want to be in the middle of the ocean on the slim ship.

  As the sun began its descent, Aden emerged from the hut with a tray of bowls and dishes, and folded a section of the deck such that it raised like a table from the center of the deck. Morgan watched as the men quickly erected hammocks that stretched from the mainsail to the hut, clipped in with a similar metal clasp as the mainsail’s boltrope. He was suitably impressed. There were four of them, and they each sat down, tucking into the meal before them. It consisted of the same sort of food Morgan was used to consuming on the island - a thin but tasty gruel substance that was vaguely fishy and a heaping family-style bowl of dried manioc chips. The hammock swayed with the vaka’s motion, but it was a pleasant sway and Morgan’s new shoes remained firmly on the deck. Nevan cracked a few off-color jokes and the men bellowed their laughter, echoing across the waves. Morgan joined in the merriment and felt more at home than he remembered being in a long time.

  “So, Morgan,” transitioned Nevan, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. “Tell us your story.”

  And Morgan did. He told them everything, in as much detail as he could remember, from the attack in the cemetery all the way until the vakas appeared on the horizon. He left nothing out, scouring his memory for every detail. Morgan hoped that perhaps they would be able to give him some advice. He was aware how little he understood about the world around him, and it chafed at him. This place worked on different rules than his own; Morgan was determined to know the playbook.

  The men sat in stunned silence after his story concluded. The food lay in the middle of their gathering, forgotten. Morgan waited patiently as they turned his tale over in their minds. Each seemed deep in thought.

  “No wonder Eliah was spooked,” murmured Nevan, meeting Morgan’s eyes. They were heavy and showed no trace of the bright laughter that had glimmered in them before. Toma nodded his agreement and the words breaking the silence seemed to stir Aden to action, as he immediately began gathering up the food and clearing things away. The quiet young man also looked spooked.

  “I don’t understand how you got on the cliff,” said Toma, slowly, concentrating hard on the story.

  “I don’t either,” replied Morgan, feeling lighter from having told his tale. “I thought I was dying in the cemetery, bleeding out. I woke up on the cliff.”

  Nevan craned his neck to inspect Morgan’s. “There are no marks from the attack?” he asked.

  Morgan felt his neck. “I haven’t seen a mirror since I got here,” he said, scratching his beard. “I don’t feel any.”

  Aden re-emerged from the hut and dismantled the table. It folded neatly back into the deck, recovering the hold below. He perched back on his hammock silently.

  “Well, I know the cities of which… Pan?” Nevan looked to Morgan for confirmation before continuing. “Spoke. Kadatheron is across the Cydathrian Sea, our vakas do not cross it easily.”

  “We could cross at Rinar,” offered Toma. “We have done that before.”

  “Yes,” replied Nevan, withdrawing a pipe and a small pouch from his hammock. “But it would add weeks to his voyage. He would be better to catch one of the large ships at Aphorat to get to Kadatheron. And the island expects us back in ten days,” he reminded. “Aden, fetch the furs.”

  The young man hopped out of his hammock and ran into the hut, emerging a short time later with his arms full of fur. He passed out the furs to each of them, and Morgan ac
cepted it gladly, wrapping the warm skin around his shoulders. Aden sat back in his hammock and bit his lip. After a few false starts, he finally spoke. The other men didn’t interrupt as he composed his thoughts. “I think maybe it’s the o-Old k-k-King you are s-supposed to go to,” he said, stuttering his way through the sentence.

  Nevan smiled, packing the pipe full of what looked like coarse green tobacco. “Aden is the grandson of Ana Riverrunner, and learned to scribe from her. He reads a lot of books. His imagination is a little wild.” He turned to the young man. “The Old King is long dead, Aden. Everyone knows that.”

  Aden bit his lip. “The b-b-books say he wasn’t like us. They s-s-said he might live f-f-forever.”

  “Was his name Kurenas?” asked Morgan.

  Aden shrugged. “H-h-his n-n-n-n…” he started, but he struggled with the words.

  “His name is lost to time,” finished Nevan, walking to Aden and clapping him on the shoulder. He handed him the pipe and a match. Aden accepted it gratefully and puffed in the acrid smoke before reaching over to hand the pipe to Toma.

  “Where would I find this King?” asked Morgan to Nevan, who had returned to his seat.

  “I know his palace was in the great desert,” replied the man. “Once upon a time, anyway.”

  “It’s a start,” said Morgan, grinning. Toma reached out to him and Morgan took the offered pipe, with a glance at Nevan. “It’s not like ebene, is it?”

  Nevan bellowed laughter. “No, no, not ebene. Safe.”

  Morgan took a long draw on the pipe and struggled not to cough. “Thanks,” he said weakly, handing the pipe to Nevan.

  Aden clapped his hands to get their attention. “I th-th-th-think…” he stopped with a sour look on his face and ran into the hut.

  Morgan looked at Nevan questioningly, and Nevan waved his fingers. “He’ll be alright. His mind works faster than his tongue.”

  “I wish more people were like that,” replied Morgan.

  Aden ran out of the hut, clutching a massive book in his hands and pressed it into Morgan’s. Aden pointed at the title, which read The Historie of Our Realm. He flipped open the cover and through the pages until he came to a chapter called Dreamers Among Us. He pointed at the words and then pressed his finger against Morgan’s chest. “I’m sorry,” stammered Morgan. “You want me to read the book?” Aden nodded and pointed at the chapter title again.

  “You can read the writings?” asked Nevan, impressed. “Are you a scribe yourself?”

  “No, well... yes? I can read and write,” answered Morgan.

  “D-d-d-d-d-dreamer.” Forming the word seemed to take forever and cause Aden a great deal of frustration, but he finally voiced it. He pointed his finger again into Morgan’s chest.

  Nevan barked a short cough and exhaled clouds of smoke. He motioned for Aden to come and take the pipe, and he did so. Toma’s eyes were wide. “A Dreamer?” he said slowly.

  “There are no Dreamers,” chuckled Nevan, but his face was unsure.

  Morgan skimmed over the first few lines in the chapter. It described travelers from another realm, but didn’t describe the realm itself. The writing was flowery and descriptive, reminding Morgan more of the poetic Norse epics he’d been forced to read in school than the dense, dry histories that he’d also been forced to read in school. “I didn’t come down any stairs,” he said, looking up from the book. “This says all Dreamers descend a staircase. I just woke up on a cliff.”

  Aden delivered the pipe to Toma and returned quickly to Morgan, flipping to the end of the chapter. He pointed to the last sentence of the last paragraph and pointed at Morgan, flapping his hand like a mouth. Morgan took the gesture to mean he should read the sentence aloud. “There have also been tales told of other Dreamers, entering our realm through nefarious means - either by themselves or by an eville spirit - these Dreamers do not descend, and rarely survive long.” He finished the sentence and looked up at Aden with a cocked eyebrow. “That’s not comforting.”

  Aden rolled his eyes and scoffed at him, walking back to his hammock.

  “Well, you barely survived,” Nevan pointed out. Aden nodded his agreement.

  “A Dreamer,” repeated Toma, a look of wonder on his face.

  Morgan flipped through the rest of the chapter, but it was almost entirely comprised of regaling the reader with the heroic tales of past Dreamers. He scanned over the entries, but they were clearly more focused on myth telling than any description or explanation Morgan thought he might find useful. “So,” he started slowly, turning over the information in his mind. “Is this all a dream?”

  Aden shook his head but said nothing. He appeared to have given up on speech for the time being. “My mother used to tell me the legends,” said Toma, who passed the pipe toward Morgan with an almost-reverence.

  “I’m not a legend. I’m just a guy that woke up on a cliff,” chuckled Morgan.

  “She said the Dreamer was in both realms at once, but their minds were here alone. They only come in times of great danger.” Toma looked at him with wide eyes.

  The sun was nearly gone, and Aden lit the two lanterns on the edge of the hut. “I’m not much of a hero,” repeated Morgan. “Did the stories say how the Dreamers got back to their world? After the story was over?”

  Toma shook his head. “Just that they did.”

  “What happens if they die here?” asked Morgan, passing the pipe to Nevan. He felt lightheaded and pleasantly dizzy, but he wasn’t having trouble forming his thoughts.

  Toma shrugged. “She never mentioned it.”

  “It doesn’t really matter. You can’t be a Dreamer,” said Nevan. “Because Dreamers don’t exist.” His voice wasn’t cruel, but the words held a finality to them. Toma looked over at Nevan and grimaced.

  “Maybe he is, maybe he ain’t,” Toma replied, clearly trying to sound nonchalant.

  “What is that stuff?” asked Morgan, taking the opportunity to change the subject as Nevan repacked the pipe.

  “It has a long name, but we just call it seaweed,” answered Nevan, and Morgan laughed. That would at least be easy to remember. “Do you like it?”

  Morgan did, very much.

  43

  Gina peered up at the sign, trying to make out the letters in the dim moonlight. They had been traveling for several nights, curling up in the dirt behind bushes during the day to sleep fitfully. She awoke with every passing footfall, and the road was much more well-traveled during the day than it was at night, so her sleeps were short and restless. She blinked sleep away from her eyes and tried to convince her vision to focus on the letters.

  “Beersheba,” she read aloud, reading the sign pointing to their right.

  “Yes, and Eusapia,” sighed Kyrri, still staring at the signs.

  “Which way do we go?”

  They stood at the end of their road. There was no clear trail going forward, but the trail in either direction was fairly clear, though much less obvious than the one they’d been traveling on. “I’m trying to decide,” he said. “Beersheba is closer, but it is the first large city out of Calephais, and the danger may still be present.” He pawed at the dirt. “But it’s easier and it takes us through the forest, where it will be easier to hide. And there will be rivers to bathe in.” He scratched at his leather. Gina found herself scratching at her legs and forced her hand away. She had changed into the linen skirt Minah had packed for her on their first morning, but she still felt filthy.

  “That sounds worth it,” she replied, her desire to be clean rating very high on her priority list.

  “Yeah, it does,” he agreed. “But the path from Beersheba to the desert is a known for outlaws and mercenaries. Caravans take the longer route.” He nodded to the sign pointing to the left. “To Eusapia. It’s like this the whole way,” he nodded at the sparse, dry vegetation. “It’s much safer. But it’s a lot longer, and we’re almost out of beef.”

  “Yeah, and water,” added Gina, adjusting the much-lighter pack. “If the route to
Eusapia is dry, we might be in real trouble in a day or two.”

  “It’s much safer,” repeated Kyrri, rubbing his whiskers with his paw.

  “Not if we’re dead of thirst,” she replied.

  “Or hunger,” sighed Kyrri, getting to his feet. “Beersheba?”

  “Beersheba,” echoed Gina, and they set off to the southeast.

  She kept a quick pace, fueled by the thought of a fresh stream, and Kyrri trotted easily beside her. They walked primarily in a friendly silence, with Kyrri occasionally reciting something or another that he remembered from his studies. When the night ended with the first light of the sun, Gina was disappointed that they hadn’t found water yet, but buoyed by the changes the morning brought to her surroundings. The brush was more lush, and though the trees weren’t exactly dense, there were more of them and they stood tall, unlike the sickly twisted ones they’d been settling under. They quickly made “camp,” which consisted of merely laying out what cloth they had - primarily her bloodstained pants and a small towel-like blanket - and nursing a tin of beef for dinner. They had only two remaining, and Gina ate only a few bites before handing it to Kyrri.

  “You should eat more, Gina-Dreamer,” he grumbled.

  “I’m alright. Just a bit tired of the beef,” she lied, trying to convince her stomach to stop rumbling. In truth, Kyrri had been painfully thin when they arrived in Calephais, and they hadn’t exactly maintained a caloric surplus on the trail. He looked awful, and Gina was afraid of him falling ill again.

  “It’s not so bad,” replied the Cat, eating the beef strip by tiny strip and savoring each one on his tongue. “There should be plenty of food in Beersheba.”

  Gina lifted her coin pouch. “What do you want to eat first, Kyrri? I’m thinking a mince pie. I didn’t get to try the one on the ship, and it smelled amazing.”