“I think you have a point, sir, but are you aware that there is a badger eating your head?”

I sighed.  “He is merely nomming.  Besides, this has to be a dream, because a badger’s jaws simply can’t open that wide.”

“Perhaps you have a point, sir.”

“A pointy head?  And stop calling me, `Sir,’ like I’m something sir…um…ish.”

“If you wish, sir.”

“Oh, no, no, no, you don’t get me that easily.  I never wish.”  Which was a lie, but so was the badger on my head.  I scratched my badger in lieu of being able to sit and think.  The strange boy who looked like an extra from “Oliver” cheerfully ceased to exist.

I was sitting on a bench that didn’t exist in a part of the Botanical Gardens that also didn’t exist, at least, to my merely mundane knowledge of the place.  I recognized the area, but not the plants, or the scent of the flowers.  It was kind of like the stuff those coffee places called chai, but more if it had been crossed with a dusty road that had just been touched by the first rain of the season, and then a packet of barbecue sauce had been split on it by the passing hoof of an antelope.

Pareve barbecue sauce, of course.

Matana sat next to me, watching the sun go down over the fields of odd, motile flowers.  “I thought you habitually closed doors,” she said.

“I thought you habitually feasted on human blood.”

“You do know there’s a badger eating your head?”

“We each have our parasites to bear, then, I guess.”

“No, a badger, not a bear.”

“Why do you insist on badgering me?”

“Have you taken all you can bear?”

I harumphed, and she giggled.  That was the way of it, then.  “Why are you in my dream?” I asked.  “I don’t even like you,” I said after the last ray of the sun fell past the ridge and the flowers slowly came to a stop, as if falling asleep.

“The feeling is entirely mutual.  Maybe that bothers your subconscious?”

“I think everyone wants to be liked,” I said, hesitantly.

“Perhaps I represent your unresolved anxieties revolving around violence?”

I quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Perfectly reasonable, of course, but I’ve never been anything but civilized, and I think that galls you.”

I shifted, not admitting anything.  After all, it was my dream, and thus my fantasy, right?  “It’s been a rough dreaming, a rough night.”

“And so are its creatures?” she asked, teasingly.

“I might have a few mysteries that include you, so my subconscious may still be churning out the reasons you’re connected.”

“Dream a little dream of me?” she shrugged.

“That’s a Sandman reference.”  I sighed.  “DC, of course,” like I had to explain to my dream.

As I watched the garden, some of the flowers began to glow, and the luminescent petals were picked up by the wind.  It was disturbingly Disney, and I was going to remark on that to Matana, but she was gone, out sucking blood in someone else’s dreams, maybe hers.   Or whatever she ate. I was still unclear on that.

“If this is,” I said to the plants, “some kind of metaphor, I will have you know that I do not read poetry for fun, and I would prefer if some sort of deus ex machina came out and explained it all to me.  Exposition and spoilers are fine.”

The flowers did not answer, but someone else walked past and sat on the bench.

“Thomas.  I was wondering when you would show up,” I said, with as much dry wry in my voice as I could manage without a cough.

“And here I am.  Not to provide answers, but maybe poetry.”

“I don’t think my brain has had the opportunity to make simple couplets, let alone some naughty limericks.”

“Am I Bedlam or Rhymer?” he asked.  It seemed to be very important to him, so I didn’t shrug off the question.

“Is this dreaming at all true?” I asked in return.

“You were exposed to a great deal of magic today.  I do not think you escaped it all,” he said. “Now, a true Thomas sees the path to Heaven as one foul and tempered too much in order, and instead spends the biblical forty days instead on the road to fair Elfland.  Mad Tom has been spit out from Elfland and maudlin, his disciples walk ten thousand miles to meet him.  What path do you follow, E?”

“I prefer the doctor moniker than something suggesting I’ve walked out of an asylum, previously mentioned comics aside,” I said.  “Why am I on the road, and does my GPS work there?”

“You’re a seeker, one who wanders the fringes, seeking the path of truth.”

“I think I’m more the type who tries to avoid truth, holds his hands his eyes with the fingers just wide enough to not stumble, and runs away shouting.  The one who knows the best bet is to throw himself on the live grenade than read a book of unspeakable horror.”

“You’re a very scared man with a badger on his head.”

“At least he’s got an affable aroma.  He could be a stinking badger.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Until you reminded me of it, I had forgotten it.  But I’m sure it’s there for a reason.  Perhaps it is a gentle method of indicating that I am as stubborn as one.  I don’t know if it even really looks like a badger, because it’s a dream.  It could be something that my mind had made a picture of that says ‘badger’ and all of your reflections in my subconscious has agreed, indeed, it is a badger, especially if it is not a chinchilla.  I, myself, just want to know am I suffering for having a badger on my head in real life?  Is this badger some stubbornness within myself that is holding me back?  I don’t know if I could go into an interview with a badger on my head.  That would probably not get me the job.  What if the badger decides it wants someone else?  Would my head be cold?  Would it suddenly savage another in order to rid itself of the taste of my scalp and go back to wherever head-eating-badgers come from?  I try not to think about it, really.”

“Madness, then?”

Of course, it was then that the alarm on my phone woke me up.

Unlike “Hotel California,” I didn’t have any problems leaving once I’d checked out.  Of course, I often thought of the line, “You can check out any time you like,” to refer to being in control of your own destiny when it came to deciding to shuffle off the mortal coil (another euphemism.)  I would then combine it with some “Phantom of the Paradise”-esque contract.  (When I was younger, I’d often add “Everything excluded shall be deemed included,” as fine print to my notes at school.  It was a rare teacher who noticed, and even rarer that they knew the reference.)  I didn’t buy the button, “Death does not release you,” though, because that just underlies the ultimate fatalism of many religions.

Those morbid thoughts consumed me (not so literally, thank goodness) on the ride back, as I considered Ereshkigal, Ani-lbo, and Hel versus Hades/Pluto, Yeng-Wang-Yeh, and Arawn, and the gender discrepancies involved.  I probably really only had the Shadow King on my mind.  My dreams and my conscience were both full of bits that needed digestion, although speaking of such, I did have to make an extra stop because ice cream really isn’t for breakfast.

It occurred to me about two hundred miles out that there wasn’t a Shadow Queen.  I didn’t stop in the middle of the road the way such epiphanies always seem to hit me, because I then spoke Sylvia’s name aloud.  I hit the steering wheel again and swore.

I checked the time and called Ed.

“I figured it out.  Mars needs women.”  If that didn’t tell Ed who was calling, merely naming myself would have been at best a let down.

“Says you,” he replied, immediately.  “Although Heinlein did kind of brush off men who liked men in Stranger in a Strange Land by deciding that his uber-civilized alien would find it unnatural.  I’ve read a lot of fanfic that disagreed.”

“Rule thirty-four.  Fine.  Shadow Kings need the womenz.”

“I’m in ur psyche stealin’ ur anima?” he tried.

“Well, if he likes the witches, who better to hang out…as?” I asked.

“Huh.”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve got a point.  Hey, have you ever seen me as the type to have a badger on my head?”

“I don’t need drugs, E.  I’ve got conversations with you.”

“Am I an afterschool special?”

“Better than an afternoon delight,” he teased.

“No, see, it makes sense.  He’s after Sylvia, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I think that’s why he was in that house.”

“No, really.”  I hit my steering wheel again.  “Okay, fine, it was right in front of me the whole time and I insisted it wasn’t just a bunch of trees, it had to be a forest.”

“Be careful, you’re almost making sense now,” Ed reminded me.

“Dude.” I tapped my fingers against the wheel and tried to get my thoughts in order.  “He can’t have Maggie.  If he was in my head, it’d be obvious.  But I wanted Sylvia, so he wanted Sylvia, and then maybe he got the -cubi in because he wants to birth a new god.  Or a new goddess.”

“I want a new god, one that does what it should? One that answers my prayers said at night, one that smites my enemies so good?” Ed filked, musing.

“How do gods mate?” I asked.

“Oh man, try the internet for that one.”

“I mean procreate.”

“I’m not backing off my original answer.  Zeus was creative, but not as much as Loki, if I recall correctly.”

“Right.  But what about gods of the underworlds?”

“Oh.  Um.  Persephone was stolen, wasn’t she?”

“Right.  I thought I remembered something about Anubis having a wife.  I know he had a daughter.  Anput.  Qadesh.  These names kind of circle around in my head, but I don’t know for sure.  And I’m driving so I can’t look it up.”

“Voice recognition systems for the win, eh?”  Ed sighed.  “I don’t know, E.   Where do you go from there?”

“That’s just it.  The wheels are turning, and I’m afraid of where the road leads.  What if he needs a female aspect in order to rule a new land?   I said then that he’s making some sort of power grab, and that’s kind of weird.”

“Taking this whole conversation as real and not part of a gaming session is kind of weird.  What, he’s running for President?  I’m voting for the lesser evil.  Hold on a second.”  He put his hand over the speaker and talked to someone in the background, while my mind raced.

-Cubi procreated in dreams, succubi stealing the seed and incubi sowing it, leaving its victim pregnant with the possibilities.  It wasn’t a nine-month gestation, either, as it had to do with the connection to the Outside, not the physical.    The Shadow King was an old power, and rare was the human that could birth a demigod.  If the -Cubi got something out of the deal, could they take the Shadow’s seed and plant it, instead?

I caught myself thinking, “Not in my Sylvia!” and then frowned.  Not my Sylvia.  And not using Rohana as a midwife, a thought that occurred and was discarded as quickly as possible.  Of course, there was a whole coven who could do the trick in a pinch, couldn’t they?

“Okay, I’m back,” Ed said.  “So he gets married, has a baby Shadow and rules a magical kingdom somewhere far away from us, right?  Why are we worried?  Doesn’t this kind of stuff happen to like hundreds of weird creatures every day?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly.  “He’s just been too connected to me and my friends to not be worried, I guess.”  My mind started winding down, or at least the anxiety decreased.

“Mom says come on over on Sunday for chicken.”

“Sounds like a plan.  Can’t miss her chicken,” I said, almost automatically.  “She’ll want to find out what’s happening.  She was in my dream, you know.”

“Yeah.  Everyone at work said they had weird dreams during the morning meeting, but dreams suck to try to tell to other people.  The best you get is, `Well it was weird,’ like your subconscious is normally straight.  Heh.”

I rolled my eyes.  “So you’re saying my subconscious is queer?”

“Hey.  Your dirty thoughts can stay right out of my side of the fence, mister.”

“Your side of the sewer, you mean.”

He chuckled and we got off the phone, while I focused on driving.

There was still some debris in the lot when I drove up, but all the flags and banners and reminders of what happened had been removed.  I was still a little shocky and in disbelief about the situation, kind of pushing it away like it had been something I’d read about or seen on TV.  You know, not actually there at the scene of the devastation.  I’d seen footage of tsunami (is that the plural, too) and I think there’s a level of escapism and a level of “sheer overwhelm” that us folk who get their information from the net have in handling real life.  I also think there’s probably a correlation between that and the adrenaline junkies amongst us – we spend so much time in the virtual it’s hard to remember the physical, so we’ll do extreme things to feel “alive.”

Just a theory, of course.

I walked up, tossing my keys in my right hand.  I’d have to return the car in the morning, but I was tired from the drive. 

I saw a letter in the gutter between the corners of my roof.  I’m sure there’s terms for it in carpentry and construction, but it was the little corner of overhang.  It took me a few tries with a stick to knock it down before I made it inside.  I knew who it was from.  After all, I’d seen her naked around there before…which is something for a good X-rated game of Clue, I thought.  (“On the roof, naked, and with a bat.”  Well, this one was “Previously as a bat,” but nevermind.)

I unlocked my door, dropped my keys in the octopus cup, turned on a light, closed & locked the door behind me (you remember who’s telling the story, right?) and then dropped down onto the futon, opening the letter to read.

“Huh,” I grunted, about a few minutes later.

Nothing for me to worry about now, that was for sure.  I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the futon.  I was asleep maybe fifty seconds later.

This time I didn’t dream.  I forgot how exhausting driving could be.  I mean, you’re sitting and watching things and maybe (all the rental cars I’ve ever driven were automatics) occasionally extending your foot.  It’s all the other things, because it’s not just like passive TV, where the most interest you get in a show (minus your being a powerful creature holding the magical might of an entire kingdom of fey who is most definitely concerned about the well-being of some meerkats) is in occasionally throwing popcorn at it if you’re disappointed in the lack of wit and character development.  While driving you actually have to react, sometimes to actual events (like that bag of leaves that blew off the truck in front of me) and sometimes to perceived possibilities (like my occasional, “No, really.  Is he going to stop at the stop sign or crash into me? No, he’s going to do a screeching halt and create the potential for an accident anyway.”)  After just a couple of hours, your tailbone is beginning to complain, anyway.  The scenery is moving past, but in long stretches of the west it’s not very different.  (I’ve driven up in the Pacific Northwest and that scenery is riveting.  If you like the colour green, of course.)  And then, especially at night you’re looking for the deer who is going to take this moment to cross the road, and other than that, it’s dark and fields and lots of dark. 

I can see why that kind of scenery is prone to myths of killers in cornfields, and abductions outside of places where there might be a payphone.  Alas, while a lot of my friends have concerns about there not being original ideas due to the number of remakes of movies and TV shows, I don’t share their concerns.  Cellphones change the plot of so many horror flicks it’s silly.  “I’m in your house,” is still scary.  “Good, then you know I have my shotgun in my hand,” is a fine response to that.  Sure, there are short-distance cellphone disruptors, but I think it’s requiring horror movie writers to come up with new hooks, um, so to speak.

I woke up because something was pressing against my thigh in a very uncomfortable fashion.  Well, that’s the reason I woke up, but the reason I didn’t just take the dragon tooth out of my pocket and roll back over for another couple of hours was because of the Dragon.

“Peredur?” I asked, groggily, staring at the face and the faint smell of burned wood.  It wasn’t sulphur, it was more like a campfire.  Great.  Dragons have signature smoke scents, maybe like perfume.

The eyes were right.

“Flee, wizard.”  He couldn’t fit in my place.  He was there, and not there at the same time, like he had slipped into the skin of the house but not the physical space. 

“G’way. I’m sleepin’.”  I am a lot braver when I’m groggy and things could still be part of my dream.

Then he roared.  It wasn’t…loud.  It wasn’t made of sound.  It was made of terror and heartbreak.  It was made of the breath of thorns and the coming of fire in the desert, where the resin of the cacti makes everything explode.  It was made of heat and hot and there was something of lost music to it, like the kind that swells up in your dreams and makes you feel like crying, but you can’t remember anything of the tune.  There were tears in it, and of course, fears, and it wasn’t at all like a shout.  Sorry.  I blame the still being asleep.

I froze.  It’s what we do with predators.  Then I moved, trying to get up, but apparently I wasn’t fast enough.  I saw his teeth come at me, and I was terrified, too much so to figure out even where I was, let alone catch the fact that his claw was aiming to pin me down.  He was black and red and like those really good pictures of Smaug, except right there in my face, in my house, and then I was flung out into space.

I rolled as I hit the grass, coughing, and aching.  I picked myself up.  I recognized this place.  It was in between the eight corners of Monaco.

I didn’t recognize the shadow that had burst through my door, the last thing I had seen as Peredur turned to face it.

I took a deep breath.  “Flee,” he said.  Well, I had business in this Kingdom. 

“To bedlam, then,” I said, aloud, and I walked between the trees.