The Sleeping Man

THE DESERT

A GRAY SKY labored above a cracked gray desert. No living thing crossed this place. The name first given to it by man was long forgotten, and the true name had never been spoken. It was simply The Desert. It was an ancient place hoarding time as desperately as thirsty men kiss water.

The Sleeping Man walked across the dry, baked ground, counting his steps carefully. There was no landmark, no star, no wind to guide his way. There were only instructions, which had been carved into the base of the Green Mountain; when he had attempted to copy them, the mystic words vanished from every medium he used. He was left to memorize them completely. After the final step, there was a warning about the Desert’s only inhabitants, the Cannoi. It described them as stretched men with no eyes and cannibals from which there is no hiding.

At the 1,000th step, he stopped. After looking at his environment, he stopped attempting to orient himself. Doubt would kill in this barren landscape as easily as a blade. He could not falter now. Standing completely still, he became truly motionless.

It was a long, arduous process to reach the Compendium. Its existence had faded into myth, and the last surviving route was the one he had memorized from words written with magic in a language long dead. Signs had reached across the realm of dreams into the physical world, and The Sleeping Man knew reaching the Compendium was the only way to stop the Volto Empire. He silently rehearsed the words.

A thousand paces to wind, not one step more,

firstly between two trees, dead and dying.

A diurnal wind shall the traveler wait before

they step with foot nearest the land’s sighing.

A thousand paces to water, not one step less,

use the hand the water shall directly embrace,

tarry not here, traveler, the sky will not bless.

Through stone go, in the hard resting place.

A thousand paces to fire, not one step shown,

arms to flame, My Breath, but not of your own.

He had begun between the two trees, one dead and one dying at the edge of the vast desert. Now he waited for the diurnal air. He would start a thousand paces off whichever foot the wind touched first. While he waited, he would gather what information he could through means unavailable to others. He would enter the Dreamscape. He consciously slowed his breath to match the pattern of deep sleep. This was one of the secrets his people were capable of, dreamwalking. Tuning his energy around him like the first note of an orchestra, he altered the harmony of his energy to mimic the sleeping desires of those asleep and pushed his conscious self forward. His corporeal form remained locked in position, but his awareness had stepped into the world of dreams.

Prophesy combined with projection and aggregated all of his subconscious intuition into fluid symbols. Accurately deciphering the images brought to him from his travels in this hidden world had taken him decades of study. He circled his physical form, contemplating the image that had inspired the latest of names given to him, The Sleeping Man. This was not his true name. There was no language able to hold the concept and, in truth, he no longer remembered its sound.

He reached out with his projected arm and anchored some energy in his physical body like a sustained chord. There were many ways to get lost in the Dreamscape, the least of which was forgetting to return. He was free of hunger and thirst, but his body was not. The presence he projected in the Dreamscape was unfettered and powerful, limited only by his understanding, imagination, and reaction. A familiar pang of loneliness sounded in his chest as he ached to ask someone, anyone else, about this ability. He believed he was the last of the Dreamwalkers, a lost tribe of nomads characterized by their violet eyes. In a time long past, his people had traveled from town to city, acting as fortune-tellers and traders while their real abilities were only rumored. The scant writings he had found allowed him to teach himself to control his innate abilities.

The Desert through the lens of the Dreamscape was astounding. It was a huge expanse of a thousand shades of shifting gray, and never had the Dreamscape resembled the physical world so closely. There were no dreamers nearby or echo of dreamers long gone. There was nothing other than the Desert. The flat gray of the world had come alive to a dynamic gray more vivid than any color. The color-less ground hummed with the energy of long-forgotten worlds. The Sleeping Man felt an ever-increasing sense of apprehension as his projection walked into the expanse.

Sound in the Dreamscape has different qualities depending on the intention of the dreamer making the sound. The mind patches together memories and parts of forgotten images, which the Dreamwalker can attune to and see a manifestation of symbols. When he heard dried leaves claw the parched dirt, he turned toward the sound. A whirlwind of dead leaves and twigs crawled toward him with two arms scratching the ground. Two thoughts jumped into his mind immediately: the direction the wind was coming and with it brought danger. Danger in the Desert could only mean one thing, the Cannoi.

He tuned his energy to harmonize with the anchor in his physical body and thought, This is a dream and I am the dreamer. The words written by one of his unknown forebears were not magical, but the singsong tone completed the sustained chord his physical body held. The words tugged on the brain’s instinct, which hid underneath language, and he was pulled back to his body. The images he saw in the Dreamscape served as a warning, but now he could smell them in the air. Ignoring the heated stench of unwashed bodies, he quickly crouched.

A moment later three of them were bounding toward him and, once close enough to almost reach out and touch him, they began to circle like sharks on land; their elongated limbs and canine knees gave them the eerie effect of a marionette running on all fours. The Sleeping Man remained crouched, waiting. He knew they would not attack, otherwise they would not have appeared as leaves. Not until they had what they wanted, and what they wanted was not for him to give. It was the first time he had been this close to one of the Cannoi, and with ever a mind for detail he noticed they were nude with no visible gender. He saw they were covered with tattoos, intricate symbols across their chests and arms. Between the three there were some images repeated and he idly wondered if they were rank.

I know why you are here, The Sleeping Man lied as he stood without moving his feet, the task on the ground complete.

One of the three Cannoi stopped circling; the image tattooed over his eyeless face reminded The Sleeping Man of a crow. Do you, Sleep Wake Man? You do to know the reason? The Cannoi’s lupine faces matched their elongated limbs, and with no features to their faces other than a mouth dominated by nasty teeth, skeleton nose, and holes where a human’s ears would go, it was odd to hear them talk at all.

Yes, I know. How is it you know me? The Sleeping Man blinked slowly, checking the other realm.

A series of clicks and hisses issued from the Cannoi and The Sleeping Man blinked again, seeing their life energy spark with burnt orange and mustard yellow. That must be their laughter. It’s ugly.

We do know, Sleep Wake Man. He runs. He runs, no eye, does not see.

Vision is only one way to see. His voice was even despite his rapid pulse.

We know! Have only dream way to see, proud Ca’noi! The two circling figures clicked in agreement.

You, you can see the Dreamscape? Ignoring the danger, he needed any information he could find about the realm of his ancestors.

The Cannoi clicked and hissed at each other, and whatever was said was stopped by the one with the crow on his face. There was a moment of silence. You to give us the Twi-light Blade now. Each word out of his mouth was one syllable and guttural but high pitched at the same time. Looking at the Cannoi in front of him, The Sleeping Man understood the reason the Cannoi were the subject of so many horror stories.

Now that is interesting. I haven’t heard anyone speak of the Twilight Blade in many years; however, I cannot give you what does not exist. The Sleeping Man blinked again, their colors were changing and he knew they were getting ready to act. He tried to recall what he had heard and read about these creatures.

Blade on back is blade of song. You to give us. The movements of all three became more agitated.

This? He gestured with his head to the handle of the sword visible over his shoulder. This is no Twilight Blade. He feigned nonchalance. As long as there are stories of a blade with infinite sharpness, there will be seekers of it. None of their seeking will make it any more real. The Sleeping Man blinked and saw the colors of the Cannoi spark red. They were getting ready to attack and he thought it fair to warn them. Besides, if one were to believe in the stories of my people … There was a long pause.

Another series of clicks denoted their disgusting laughter. It was worth a shot. As he tensed, the two circling leapt at him in one motion from either side; one attacked high while the other attacked low. Having read their intentions, The Sleeping Man jumped as well, but twisted away from one while tucking his legs away from the other. It was a sideways prone flip, which he thought probably looked artful, but all of his best moves never had witnesses. As his feet touched the ground, the Cannoi he had named Crow Face in his head had dropped to a crouch.

The Sleeping Man blinked, using the Dreamscape to read the intentions of his attackers. Crow Face had a burning red pulse showing anger but not violence while the two on either side were sparkling red and deep indigo showing impending attack. The indigo showed deception so they would feint. The Sleeping Man did not want them to change their strategy so he dodged again. This time, however, The Sleeping Man threw his sword from his shoulder as he spun, killing the attacker on his right. It barked to the sky in pain for only a moment; the other keened a violent blue-gray grief almost overwhelming the colors of his dreamsight. Crow Face was waiting for this opportunity.

He allowed the attack to come. As much as he didn’t want to lose his feet’s placement, he rolled back with the attack and planted his feet on Crow Face’s chest. Once his body was inverted under his attacker, The Sleeping Man launched the Cannoi as far as possible. The grieving Cannoi clawed at The Sleeping Man as he kicked up to his feet. He dodged to the right. Grief made the Cannoi’s accuracy less deadly, and when the second attack was too high, The Sleeping Man caught it as he ducked under it. With a twist, the momentum of the attack caused the Cannoi to flip over The Sleeping Man’s hip. He decisively bent the long arm opposite the wrist, then elbow, snapping both. There was more of the blue-gray, but this time it was streaked with a liquid purple red.

Checking behind him for the leader, he saw the recovered desert hunter running toward him. With no other choice, he stepped away from the arm he was holding and retrieved his sword. While unique, it was not the Twilight Blade they sought, but rather a short sword common to his people. Other opponents jokingly called it a knife, until they lost the fight. He spun and pointed directly at the charge. "You will halt!" He spoke with the power of the Dreamscape, a polyphonic tone used mainly for intimidation as it didn’t have any physical effect.

In this case, it worked. He had dispatched one attacker quickly, subdued the other, and was now armed in a one-on-one fight. Even creatures such as the Cannoi had a survival instinct. There was a long moment when no one moved. Crow Face appeared to smell the air, clicking and tilting his head in a gross parody of a bird listening to sound he could not detect. Not enough was known about them.

You are fast, Sleep Wake Man, but you are lost in Sa Mac Mau Xam. The leader spoke over the keening of his injured hunter, using their term for the Desert.

Perhaps.

You are to tell me your pur-pose.

Is this your idea of bargaining? Even if they somehow gave him permission to pass, he had only barely had time to get ready the first time.

I do not trade with Wet Men!

There was another long pause, neither willing to back down. Suddenly there was a gust of wind. The immediacy of it distracted The Sleeping Man, as if he did not take note of this he would have to wait another day. The dust on the ground was kicked into the air, swirling around The Sleeping Man. The leader of the group of Cannoi used this opportunity to leap impossibly high into the air. The Sleeping Man was caught off guard and raised his sword to block. No attack came. The wind died as suddenly as it came, and the injured and dead Cannoi had vanished with Crow Face. He blinked slowly and saw a hint of their trail going off into the distance and fast. He was alone, for now.

He knew the direction the wind had come; now he had to follow the prescribed instructions from the ancient text. It would take an entire day, but this place had no day, no night, and no other way to tell time or direction. The instructions were so precisely vague he knew he could not have one step’s error. The fight had moved his feet. Visibility was worse now. A single step to the side would place him exponentially off track down the line.

He looked down to see the marks he made when he had crouched, being covered with dust. Carefully placing his toes where the vanishing marks indicated, he stood in place. The wind had come from his right, and the instructions told him to step with the foot the wind touched first. He took a step with his right foot and began to walk the rehearsed pace. Between the danger of being lost in this place and the Cannoi, he wondered how anyone living had ever crossed this desert. He began to count his steps while focusing on his objective.

The Compendium was the sum of knowledge, said to have records of everything, including the present moment. There were supposedly scribes writing ceaselessly, getting constant streams of information from magical means. There was no way to know what the Compendium looked like or even its exact nature as most of the written accounts contradicted each other. One said, Appeared in the middle of a featureless desert as a massive stone castle, with silent monks navigating great tomes on carefully handwritten pages, while another from the same era said, The forest citadel known as the Compendium towers over a gray desert, with patterns that can be translated into knowledge seen only through sunlight streaming through the forest canopy.

After 500 steps he stopped, mentally calling up the directions he had so carefully memorized. He paused. From what he knew about the Cannoi, they did not flee lightly, if at all. He centered himself, knowing to check the Dreamscape so soon was risky and tiring, but fearing the consequences if he did not. Breathing with ever-increasing slowness, he forced his eyes into a rapid twitching motion of one in deep sleep. This was called the Sonno Forzato. It was not as prophetic as entering the Dreamscape, but rather would show him anyone nearby even if they were awake. He expanded his energy in ever-increasing circles from where he stood. Each pulse of energy had an echo that would tell him the locations of all dreamers nearby, but in this case there was nothing. Almost always there was residual energy of both living and dead, but this place held neither.

Perhaps the three Cannoi he encountered were younglings testing their mettle. He felt a faint glimmer on the edge of his awareness and focused on it. Suddenly, hundreds of the Cannoi’s burnt-orange specks appeared at the edge of his circle of awareness. They were much, much larger. The Sleeping Man briefly realized the Cannoi he had faced were, in fact, younglings.

A sharp keening sound yipped twice and a sickening chorus responded. He carefully but quickly made a ratio of how many walking steps went into one of his measured running steps. Checking the arithmetic in his head again was both time-consuming and necessary. He was satisfied with the figure, but factoring in how close the Cannoi were with how efficiently they were closing in caused him to wonder whether or not he could escape their net.

The Sleeping Man ran.

THE RAIN

HE WAS BEING chased. No, he was being hunted. The measured rhythm allowed him to blink slowly, each blink revealing the colors seen within the Dreamscape. Cannoi were running behind him, their colors merging into a pulsating mass of excited yellows and violent reds. Since he had found the wind in an otherwise windless desert, he was wondering how he would find water in an otherwise waterless place. In the back of his mind, the thought which got the least attention, like a name on the tip of the tongue, was trying to figure out why Crow Face had demanded the Twilight Blade. Rarely had the mythic sword been mentioned as anything other than a myth. The only relief is that they didn’t seem to be aware of his attempt for the Compendium. It did not seem possible they were unaware of the Compendium, as they were the only other inhabitants of the Desert.

Nine hundred steps. Why hadn’t they caught up to me? He had done the math and he didn’t have much farther to go on this trajectory. Visibility was getting worse. He wasn’t sure if the desert was actually getting harder to navigate or if the dust from the group of Cannoi was making things worse, but either way he was near the end of his path. That’s why they’ve been circling me, creating dust. They’re trying to blind me. Mentally, he prepared himself for the final paces.

Upon reaching the end of the path, he looked for water but could not see more than three meters in any direction. There was no time to waste, so he slowed his breathing and visualized the ancient steps of the Sleepless, a prescribed dream like a recipe that was used to induce premonitions. It layered the Dreamscape onto the physical realm, like looking through a lens, and revealed hidden truths of the subconscious. It was hard to clear his mind, and entering the Dreamscape with worries was something he always tried to avoid. When the mind is already agitated, he found forcing sleep would cause nightmares to come to life. Such was the power of the Dreamwalkers, they had to balance themselves before they could affect the balance of others.

It took him a moment to realize the Cannoi had stopped. His eyes could not see them, but every blink showed a glowing ring of malice far enough away to allow a moment to catch his breath.

To see the prophecies of the Sleepless, he would have to self-hypnotize a neutral state, as this would allow the mind to see more clearly. With the Cannoi so close, he did not know if he had time to go through the steps properly, but then again, he did not have time for noneffective measures. I am walking down a staircase, spiraling downward. The inner wall had a torch every quarter turn, opposite a small arched window. One of the stones on his next step had a crack running the length of it, which he stepped over and continued down. The process repeated until his mind was in a trance. The image of the eyeless horrors with jagged teeth called the Cannoi were affecting his concentration. Nevertheless, he soon was rhythmically going down mental steps of stone. He kept the pace mentally, the details repeating over and over. He had read accounts of his lost tribe of nomadic Dreamwalkers meditating for hours to find the door of the Sleepless. He did not know why, but it never took him that long.

He saw the door. He opened it and stepped inside. Stepping through the door in this case was not a mental projection outside his physical form. While it was technically the Dreamscape, he could not simply visualize what he wanted and have it appear. The Sleepless was trying to steer down a raging river and his consciousness was the raft to which he held. He was carried back along the path he came until he saw the Cannoi. Their vague outlines were moving through dust clouds with glowing red eyes pulsing with energy. He barely had time to register the fact they even had eyes in the Dreamscape until the raw current of dream energy carried him upward. He saw the half circle visible on the ground when the light around him dimmed. Clouds began to surround him and grab at him through the Dreamscape. They were gray and turbulent, shapes forming faces to frown at his intrusion. The Sleeping Man felt a coldness seep into his bones as these were clearly the ancient dreamers of this place and his previous foray into the Dreamscape did not reveal them.

He was hit back and forth amongst the faces by their silent shouts until they gathered their energy and hurled him toward the ground. His body was the target, and right before he slammed into himself he wondered how they were kicking him out of the Dreamscape. He woke gasping for air in the same way as when he used to dream of falling as a child, when he would wake up on impact. The difference between him and other children was that when he woke up from a fall, he had very real injuries. It was not until he knew more about his people that he understood he did not dream in the same way as others.

Now he was kicked out of the Dreamscape, had no idea where water was going to come from, and would have to wait for the Cannoi to do whatever it was they did to the people they caught. The fact that there were no tales of survivors spoke volumes. He was angry that he didn’t learn more from the Sleepless. The red eyes of the Cannoi in the Dreamscape indicated to him they could see as well as if they had eyes. The half circle of approaching Cannoi meant he was trapped. The faces of the storm were the most disconcerting thing. Faces gave them an identity, meant they were partly thinking creatures or at least had the remnants of thought. Their lives were so long ago they were dreaming in elemental shapes, but had managed to hold on to to primal emotions. He didn’t quite understand what falling from the storm clouds meant. Unless he was thinking too metaphorically, falling from the clouds could be more literal. Rain! He would have to follow the rain! The elation was short-lived as he had no real idea how to travel upward.

The Cannoi had traveled within earshot and his panic increased. This was due to the fact he was not certain how he could travel upward in a completely flat environment. Flying was out of the question as he could only do that in the Dreamscape, and even if he did, his body would be in the physical realm. He would have to decide something quickly; there was no more time. Thinking back to the instructions, he wondered what he’d done wrong. He ran, he didn’t walk, but the distance should be the same. Intuition came to him then; something in the vision tickled the back of his neck and he remembered the half circle of Cannoi. Things in the Dreamscape were not literal, but they were sometimes simple. They wouldn’t attack in a half circle when a full circle would be better. They would be able to circle him, because they could run much faster. Therefore, they couldn’t circle him, and if they couldn’t circle him there had to be a reason. There had to be something to climb up. Or fall from. He hoped for climbing.

The dust parted and he could see them. They bounded but remained low to the ground like some type of skeletal human insect with lupine features. He resigned himself to what would be and continued in the direction he had been heading. After six paces he ran straight into a rock wall. His laugh was cut off when he saw no footholds. The wall was completely smooth. He spun around and drew his sword, ready for the end. He had hoped to make it farther, but there was no changing this. After all, it was only death.

The certainty of this raced across the desert floor toward him. He thought of the clouds, the ancient spirits of a place so old it had no name, living beings who had spent so many years in death they had forgotten how to dream their own form, speak their native tongue, and yet were strong enough for him to feel their echoes. He wondered if he would be able to join them. The Sleeping Man would fight to the death, and the best chance of fighting would be to summon the aid of the dreamers in the clouds. So it was that the last of the Dreamwalkers fought against the final sleep. He just hoped they would be able to understand him. He took a deep breath, and in the polyphonic tone of his people, sang the dirge of the Dreamwalker War.

O sorrow be, for none shall know

Distant shores, wher’n children grow

Mist and mem’ry, will softly sing

While yon death bells, do ov’rly ring

War is lost, once begun

Death and life hath none.

The Cannoi screamed in response, defying him to fight such a large number. As if appearing from thin air, dark gray clouds crackled to life. If he was going to die, it was going to be fighting alongside any dreamers nearby. He would like to have met another Dreamwalker just once in his life. Instead, he only had half-remembered tales, tomes, and the occasional spirit in the Dreamscape. It has been said that upon death’s door there will be an accounting for one’s life, flashes of memories and scenes of a life lived. The Sleeping Man waited for this, but only thoughts of a childhood apart as an outcast surfaced and he shoved the memories away. He would need to harmonize the Dreamscape with the physical realm to fight with dreamers, and since the Cannoi seemed to be able to already see the Dreamscape, he had no idea what to expect.

Leaping and hissing amongst the noise of clicks and yips, the Cannoi were coming to their jumping distance thirty feet away. The Sleeping Man closed his eyes to see a pulsing blood-orange ring angrily clawing its way toward him. In the very middle where the most color pooled, there was an undercurrent of black like a starless sky, and even someone who could not dreamwalk would feel the intention of death. Having his internal energies focused by the song, The Sleeping Man pulled from both realms and, in the widest polyphonic tone, spoke.

"Only death!"

That final dream, death, the non-thing which defied definition. As cold was the non-thing which defined the absence of heat, so too was death the absence of life. Where once was the last Dreamwalker, there would be now be no Dreamwalkers.

The sound grew and poured across the thirsty ground as does an overfull cup, bouncing off the wall behind him and chasing the waves already heading toward the murderous mass of Cannoi. In the Dreamscape, the sound was a trumpet blast, a war cry, a rally for any dreamer within its range. In the best of scenarios, he could use anyone asleep nearby to join him in the Dreamscape, and they could combine their energies to accomplish his goals or they could provide information.

In this ancient place, old spirits from eons passed had forgotten their language. Everyone dreamed after death, but those who