Dreams and Shadows

chapter THIRTY

THE RUSTLING OF THE VEIL OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

The locals called it Crackville—an uninspired but accurate moniker for a two-block-by-two-block-radius gutter of slumlord-owned apartment complexes, sporting no less than three competing crack houses operating at any given time. It had everything a growing slum needed to blossom into a full-blown ghetto: day-labor storefronts, liquor and convenience stores, bad lighting, and a dozen places to run if the police ever bothered to do anything but drive by slowly. The only thing keeping this mess from spilling over into the rest of the city was being nestled smack in the middle of sub-suburban tract homes, guarded by well-armed soccer moms, aided by lenient laws on gun ownership. While this didn’t stop the steady flow of traffic from coming in on Friday and Saturday nights to score, it did keep the transient population from lighting up their makeshift pipes too close to where the kids played. Instead, they lit up behind the overflowing brown Dumpsters sprinkled liberally throughout the area.

Ewan’s apartment was on the third floor of the central-most apartment complex in the very heart of Crackville. From his front door, he could see the porches of two operating drug dens—sometimes three, as they were prone to moving around in a shell game triggered by violence or the rare narcotics bust. One had to use caution when walking through the parking lots, not only to avoid degenerates doing the junkie shuffle mumbling for a handout, but also to keep from stepping on needles or shattered glass pipes.

The apartments were cabana style, facing a pool that was a molding, slimy, still-water pond, covered in algae and a thick brown layer of leaves still lingering from the previous autumn. It gave off the sickly smell of rot residents never noticed until mentioned aloud. Swarming with mosquitos as it was, Colby liked to think of it as the birthplace of disease. There was something almost supernatural about how foul Crackville was, as if some coven of infernally aligned creatures crept through its darkest crevasses, responsible for it all. But he knew better. Only humans could invent squalor and filth like this.

Yashar stood beside the door, on the other side of the veil—out of sight from mortal eyes—vigilant for anything that might catch them off guard. Something wasn’t right about Coyote’s visit. There was a lingering worry in the back of his mind. Was he missing something? By simply strolling up to Ewan’s were they somehow doing exactly what they shouldn’t? While normally more cautious about such things, the bottle of whiskey he and Colby had polished off helped assuage any fears he might have.

Colby rapped on the door, half drunk, but steady enough to hold a conversation. He waited a moment before raising his fist to rap again. KA-CHUNK. He was interrupted by the dead bolt on the other side of the door. It opened and Ewan peered out, looking both ways as he did so.

“Colby?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing here this late?”

Colby didn’t have an immediate answer.

“Is that Johnny Walker I smell?”

Colby shook his head. “No, it’s far older and much harder to pronounce, especially after half a bottle.”

“Get the hell in here.” Ewan held the door open wide enough for Colby to step through, furrowed his brow, and then closed it behind him, dead-bolting it again.

“Sorry, man,” said Colby. “I’ve been drinking.”

“I can see that.”

“You mind if I crash here tonight? I shouldn’t be out in this condition.” He was lying; he would have no problem getting home. But this seemed about as good an excuse as any.

“Of course,” said Ewan with a wry smile. “You’ve done it for me.”

Colby thought about that for a second. “That I have, actually.”

“Let me get you a pillow and a blanket from the other room.” Ewan walked into his bedroom and rooted around in his closet. Colby took a moment to soak in his surroundings. He breathed deeply through his nose, smelling nothing but stale laundry and unwashed dishes. There were no unusual shadows, nor were there any out-of-place holes. If any supernatural creatures spied on Ewan, they were doing so outside his apartment.

Ewan’s place was the consummate starving artist’s retreat. While no gifted painter, he was talented enough an illustrator and had lined the walls with thick sketch paper, scrawled with a series of troubling drawings. Colby had seen them before. Each was of a fairy, clearly a scene from his long-forgotten life, most depicting a little girl. Sometimes she overlooked a pond; other times she ran through fields of tall grass. Over time, Colby had pieced together some of their inspirations from his own memories. He knew the girl, but he’d rather not remember her.

On the floor was a collection of battered secondhand guitars, scattered around a warped, tin ashtray, and the clutter of shuffled notebook paper, covered front to back with hastily scribbled lyrics and sheet music. A single dim lamp lit the room, making it seem dingier than it actually was. Against the wall languished a soiled couch, no doubt reclaimed from a curb, and beside it a rickety old bookcase. Atop that bookcase—perched precariously upon a teetering pile of books and papers—was none other than Colby’s old companion, Mr. Bearston.

Colby ran his fingers over one of the bear’s outstretched arms. For a moment, he felt eight years old again, ignorant and innocent. He stared into Mr. Bearston’s one remaining eye—cataracted with years of grime—and smiled; it was just as he remembered it. Its fur was matted from years of night sweat and frayed from as many years of play. A single round spot lingered where an eye had previously been, revealing something only a few shades off from the bear’s original color. “Have you been keeping a proper eye on him, sir?” Colby asked wistfully of the bear. “I sure hope you have. You have a very important job, you know.” Reaching up, he took the bear’s head in one hand and made it nod. “Good. Keep up the good work, sir.”

“What are you looking at?” asked Ewan from behind him.

Colby turned around. “Mr. Bearston.”

“Who?”

“Your bear,” he said. “Mr. Bearston.”

“Oh, that? His name is Dithers. I’ve had him since before we met. Got me through a lot, when I was a kid, you know?”

“Dithers?”

“I have no idea. You know how stupid kids’ names can be.”

Colby nodded.

Ewan handed him a stained pillow and a ragged blanket. Colby looked askance at the couch, but took a seat anyway. “What are you still doing up?” he asked.

“Writing. Working on a few songs.”

“A few?”

“Yeah, I’m dizzy tonight. I don’t know what it is—I mean, yeah, I know what it is—but I’ve got all of this music bouncing around in my head, louder than it’s ever been before.”

“Louder?”

“Yeah. Louder. Clearer. I’ve always heard music, deep down, but it’s always been fuzzy, you know—out of reach. Like it was waiting for me to fill in the blanks. But it doesn’t have holes anymore. I can hear the music. I’m just trying to get it right. It’s still not all coming out.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

“Well . . .”

“Well, what?” asked Colby with a hint of concern.

“There’s this girl.”

“This girl?”

Ewan smiled, bigger and brighter than Colby had ever seen him. It was a goofy, almost embarrassing expression, like something out of a comic book or a cartoon. “Nora,” he said, sighing silently after he said her name.

“Nora?”

“Nora. She was at our show tonight.”

“You had a show? Why didn’t you call?”

“It was last minute.”

“But this dream girl somehow knew about it.”

“I’m not entirely sure she was there for our show.”

Colby’s eyes lit up. “So what’s her deal?” he asked. “Tell me about her.”

“Her name’s Nora.”

“Got that. Nora what?”

Ewan’s mouth hung open to answer, but his memory turned up blank. Instead: Silence.

“Okay, skipping the last name. What does she do? Is she a student?”

No answer.

Colby grew ever more frustrated with Ewan. “Can you at least describe her to me?”

“Oh! Yes! She’s small. Very small. With big brown eyes and wispy short brown hair.”

“Okay, that’s a start.”

“She’s very . . . different, you know? She’s got this way about her that isn’t like other girls—unconventional, without trying too hard, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“She has me writing music, man.”

“I can see that.”

“No, good music.”

Colby laughed. “Are we sure this girl is even human?” He was only half joking, though Ewan wouldn’t know it. “No last name, no job to speak of . . .”

“She’s beautiful and her touch is like . . . fireworks.”

“Jesus, man. This sounds serious.”

“I know,” said Ewan, a bit stunned by the idea. “You know how people talk about meeting the one and just knowing right then and there that they’re the one?”

“Yeah, everyone has that. They feel it every time they meet someone they’re excited about, and then when that goes south, they forget that they ever felt that way so it can feel new next time.”

“Uh-huh. Dick. Well, that’s what this feels like.”

“Well, don’t just stand there looking like an idiot. Play me some of this music.”

“All right, but it’s rough.”

“I would hope so, you just met her tonight.” Colby cocked a brow. “Right?”

Ewan nodded.

He sat on the ground and picked up a beat-up guitar. It was well worn, easily the most battered of the bunch—covered in stickers and nicks from years of abuse—but it had a deep, robust sound. There was something manly and rugged about it, as if it were the Charles Bronson of guitars, each chord dousing the air with the trembling bass of testosterone. If you listened closely, the guitar itself had a story to tell you. But Ewan had his story to tell first.

Colby listened to his friend lay into the guitar. The first notes were enchanting, a delicately constructed opening that drew the listener in, invited them to listen to a love story before promising to tell one, only to turn—when one least expected—into a fiery, percussive rock song with an immediate and insidious hook. Instantly, Colby was nodding along, intimately familiar with the tune, despite never before having heard it.

Or had he?

There was something peculiar about its infectiousness. It sounded like something he’d hummed a hundred times before. It wasn’t the Stones or the Beatles—but it had their immortality. Their verve. Something about it wasn’t right; most of the notes were there, but not enough to complete the memory it was tugging at. What? Was? It?

Wait, was it . . . ? It couldn’t . . .

The bridge came around and, catching a break in the lyrics, Colby spoke up. “What do you call this?”

“ ‘Pixie Moon.’ ”

Shit.

Colby knew what this was. Though incomplete and not enough to be considered true plagiarism, it was close enough to the original that it would draw the attention of any fairy who heard it. “The Rustling of the Veil”—a melody said to be a thousand years old that could inspire any fair maiden to dance upon hearing it. He closed his eyes and peered beyond the veil, trying to grasp the structure of the magic playing before him, but there was none—not a hint of it. It was a rollicking, foot-stomping song to be sure, but there was nothing magical about it.

Try as it might, it was no “Rustling of the Veil.” But it was close enough. Ewan was beginning to remember.

“This girl inspired this?” asked Colby.

Ewan smiled. “Yeah. And about half a dozen others. But none of them is as close to being finished.”

Colby nodded. “The song is great. A little more work—just a little—and I think you’ve got your first hit.”

“Really?” asked Ewan excitedly. Compliments from Colby meant a great deal to him; he offered praise rarely, and only when he truly meant it. If Colby liked it, that meant it might actually be good.

“Yes, really.”

Ewan smiled like a boxer having won a bout after fifteen long rounds. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“Why don’t you thank me by telling me more about this mystery girl?”

“She tastes like fresh-picked strawberries.”

“Are you serious?” asked Colby.

“But she smells like flowers, you know, like bluebonnets in the spring. Her hair is like running your fingers through silk. And her skin—it’s like a china doll’s.”

“Porcelain?”

“That’s it, porcelain.”

“So she’s a cliché.”

Ewan frowned. “No. She’s perfect.”

Colby threw his hands up in the air, defensively apologizing. “Drunk!”

“Yeah. That gets you only so far. You’re lucky this girl has me in such a good mood.”

“Sorry, brother.”

“It’s cool.”

Colby swallowed hard. “Look, I have something to tell you.”

“What?” asked Ewan, his hand resting flat upon the guitar strings.

Colby wavered on the edge of saying something stupid—something he couldn’t take back. He had suspicions, but nothing concrete; he also still had a lot of whiskey in his system, clouding his judgment. “Don’t let her break your heart,” he said somberly. “Someone will always—”

“I swear, man,” Ewan interrupted. “Always with the big brother thing. You’re a year older.”

“I know,” he said, nodding.

“A year.”

“Yes.”

“One. Year,” said Ewan with a single pointed finger.

“I get it,” said Colby, beginning to feel frustrated.

“You know what we need to do now?”

“What?”

“We need to get you a girl.”

Colby laughed. “Does Nora have a friend?”

Ewan looked on, staring off in thought. “You know . . . I don’t know.”

EWAN AWOKE WITH a start from a knock at the door that sat him up straight in bed. He’d been dreaming of small men again, which always made him uneasy the following morning. It took a moment to ascertain where he was. It was light out and he was in his bedroom. Everything else must have been a dream.

Staggering out of bed and into the living room, eyes bleary, hair a jungle of bed head, he looked to the couch, expecting to find a sprawled Colby, still passed out from the night before. In his place rested a neatly folded blanket with a pillow placed squarely on top. Atop that was a note.

Thanks for the couch. You can have it back now. —C.

Another knock.

“All right, all right. I’m coming.”

The door was barely open before something sprang through. It leapt upon him without warning, its legs wrapping firmly around his waist, its arms wrapping tightly about his neck. “Ewan!” it exclaimed. Confused and faltering back, Ewan tried to adjust to the weight clinging to his center of gravity. As his eyes focused, he found himself staring into a pair of big, tawny brown eyes.

Nora smiled, and then kissed him square on the mouth.

“I told you I’d find you.”

Ewan put both of his hands firmly on her tiny waist, and then set her down gently.

“How did you . . . ?” he began.

“Sssshhhhh,” she said, putting a single, delicate finger over his lips. “I have a secret to tell you.”

“What?”

She looked both ways, pretending someone might be listening. Then she leaned in close, kicking the door shut behind her with a light shove, and whispered like a schoolgirl. “I’m magic.”

“You’re magic, huh?” he whispered back.

She nodded.

“And what kind of magic can you do?”

“Apart from finding the boy I like?”

“Yeah, apart from that.”

“I can convince that boy to carry me into the bedroom and make love to me without saying anything else.” She cocked a curious brow and let his hormones do the rest. He reeled for only a moment before scooping her tightly into his arms, kissing her, and walking her into the bedroom without their lips separating once.

EWAN’S BED WAS a frameless mattress atop a box spring on the floor, pushed into the farthest corner of the room to get the most out of the available space. He sat upright in it, his back against the wall, a worn-out old sketchbook a few pages shy of retirement in his lap. His pencil worked furiously, once again drawing the young girl.

Beside him, Nora stirred in bed, stretching out into an adorable catlike yawn that gently knocked the covers off her body. She rolled onto her side, propped her head atop her hand, and watched silently as Ewan drew. His eyes were unwavering.

“You’re drawing her again?”

“Yeah,” he said without looking up. “I guess I am. I wasn’t thinking about it really. Just letting my hands go at it.”

“Where do they come from? The images, I mean.”

“Dreams, mostly. I get these faint glimmers, almost like memories. And then they’re gone. I draw them to hold on, to try to capture the feeling of those dreams, those glimmers.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know, someone from the dreams.”

“Someone special?” she asked.

Ewan thought deeply for a moment, hesitating before answering. “I don’t remember her. But she feels special. There’s this hole in my heart every time I draw her; you know, a sick sort of feeling. Like she’s someone I lost.”

“Like the girl of your dreams?”

Ewan narrowed his eyes and scowled a mock frown. “She looks like she’s nine.”

“Love knows no bounds,” she said in all seriousness. “Neither time nor space can keep two people’s energies apart.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” asked Ewan, laughing a bit at the thought.

“Without question,” Nora said sternly. “Love is the most primal force in the universe. It inspires us, pulling us over otherwise insurmountable obstacles. Art is created to exalt it, children are born of it, and entire lives are devoted to seeking it out in the most unlikely places.” She smiled—the joy within her at the thought of it all overflowing from her upturned lips and wide, radiant eyes. “Do I believe that an emotion like love can transcend something as irrelevant as time? Yes.”

“But time is a real thing. You can measure it. You can’t measure love.”

“That’s what makes it more powerful.”

Ewan laughed. “You really are into this whole idea of love, aren’t you?”

“My whole life is about love.”

“How can your whole life be about love?” he asked. “How many men have you been with?” The question escaped his lips before he’d been properly able to vet it, though he regretted it instantly. He didn’t want to know the answer. This girl was perfection, and he knew he was about to spoil that with the sweaty, pitiless truth.

“How many men?” she asked.

He hesitated. It was too late. “Yes,” he said, squinting tightly, as if that would somehow protect him from it.

“Have I been with?”

“Yes.”

“You,” she said.

“Yes, including me.”

“Just you.”

“No, how many men total?”

“Just one. You.”

“Wait, what? No,” he protested. “Seriously.”

Nora wheeled her legs around and sat up, crossing them Indian style before perching both of her elbows upon her knees, resting her head in her hands. She looked directly into Ewan’s eyes and spoke very plainly. “Seriously.”

“That didn’t feel like a first time.”

“Do you know how long I’ve waited to find the guy to do that to—to do that with? That wasn’t experience, Ewan. That was deeper.”

“So that whole thing about having the power to make boys you like make love to you?”

“It only works on you.”

“Whoa,” he said, his mind blown. “So you’re a virgin?”

“Not anymore.”

Ewan looked both excited and scared at the same time. “Why me?”

“When you find a soul as pure and honest as yours—when you find someone whose arms fit perfectly around you and who chases the rest of the world away when they do—you grab on with both hands and you don’t let go. If you tell me you want me, Ewan, I’ll be yours until the end of your days. And when those days are through, I’ll cross time and space to find you again. Time and again. And we’ll be together forever, time and space be damned.”

She climbed atop him, straddling him and casting aside his sketchpad. There she pressed her face to his—forehead to forehead, nose to nose, eyes locked, unblinking.

“Do you want me?” she asked.

Ewan nodded slightly, refusing to break his gaze. “Yes.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m yours. Forever.”