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Some of the best books I've ever read were stories about stories. They are writers trying to explain writing. This list includes Michael Ende's The Neverending Story, Stephen King's Secret Window, Secret Garden, William Goldman's The Color of Light, and, best of all, Neil Gaiman's epic Sandman books. There was even an episode of Deep Space Nine with a Muse-like character.
There is another great tradition of stories about the exploration of the afterlife. Homer does it in The Odyssey, Dante in his Divine Comedy, and C. S. Lewis in The Great Divorce.
The Dream at World's End is both. It takes place in Faërie, which is the passageway between earth and heaven (or hell). It is the place where the stories of all of mankind congregate. It is the land of dream, where everything is fancy, but more true than anything we might have seen in this world. All stories are there, but no story originated there.
Except this one.
The first three chapters can be read below.
CHAPTER 1
In Which Two Men Meet at a River, and Ill Omens Are Witnessed
What came before seemed as a dream to the Knight, fading as quickly as the morning dew. Parts lingered still, but too brief to be coherent, too scattered to be assembled into any sort of understandable story. Ironic that those pieces seemed distant to him in that moment, for he understood that they represented more than a dream, but rather a part of his life. But they were absurd like those dreams of flying or breathing underwater, which he would believe at the time of dreaming, but would later feel very silly for that belief. Yet why were those images within his memory absurd, since he knew that they were Truth?
There was a sword on display, upon a pedestal, as though there was something important about that particular weapon. And also was there a book that he once read but did not fully understand. He could read the individual words without trouble, but the structure of the sentences was often complex, and he only understood only sections. And then there were people, some he knew as family, and yet their faces were blurred. There was a woman, but he could not even remember the color of her hair. The dream was slipping.
The Knight breathed deeply, letting the images fade, holding no more to them, for they had become too weak to lead him to the full memory. Instead, he turned his thoughts to the land around him: a place he had never seen, and yet was utterly familiar.
The river before him flowed languidly and smoothly, and so clear was it that the Knight could not see a single leaf left abandoned upon its surface, and he could count every rock upon the bed could if he so desired. He stood on one bank, and the other he could see vaguely, and he knew that he would not be able to swim the entire width of the river. So straight was its path, and to each side could the Knight see that the river neither turned nor leaned, neither widened nor narrowed, until his sight failed him because of the mists of distance, and he could see no more. Within the river he saw fish, but fish of sorts that should never be able to mingle, for the type of water for one would be poison for another. He bent down, his light armor clanking loudly, to taste the water. But only a taste did he take, a drop upon his glove, for he could not before tell if the water would be fresh, or if it was tainted by the sea, if a sea was near. The water was fresh, but he did not drink more, for he was not thirsty, and his curiosity had been quenched.
On the far side there was a wall that seemed to engulf the horizon, as long as the river was long, and a mile high at the least. It was made of grey stone, uniform and unerring, with only a single gate as a variation to the theme.
So transfixed was he upon the wall that he did not notice when another man came unto that place. The Knight, not watching, could not say how the man arrived: whether it was by the long but narrow path cut neatly through the forest behind them (a trail that the Knight had not even noticed until his eyes finally turned from the wall), or if he had simply appeared. But suddenly he was there, and this man too stared at the wall, his mouth agape and eyes wide.
What the Knight first noticed about this man was his clothing. His coat and breeches both were cut from the same black fabric, but it was thin fabric, and would not protect the man from the dangers of daily toil — dangers that each man faced, from the farmer to the merchant, save only if he was a priest or scholar or a lord. But his clothing did not reflect such positions, though there was a certain neatness to it. The man wore a buttoned tunic beneath his coat, one of vibrant white, but also quite thin. One more article did he wear, save for his belt and short boots, and that was a decorated strip of fine Eastern fabric that the man wore tied around his neck, almost as a noose, but slightly differing in its knot. The major color of this queer article was red, but also was it striped with black.
At last was the newcomer finished with his survey of the wall, and he turned to the Knight. For a moment they stood, examining each other, and at last the man said, "I cannot say where I am, but I fear the answer, for I have been blind for several years, and now I see."
"A man of great faith must you be, for such a miracle be granted unto you," said the Knight, bowing his head slightly.
"A man of faith I am," said the man. "Yet I believed the time of miracles to be over. I have a friend who would tell me that we have just grown used to miracles, that each sunrise is a miracle, but it has been disguised to us by science. I never understood until this moment, but I see the sun now, and truly is it a miracle. What a fool I have been."
The Knight looked up, seeing the great orb above him, though he did not look directly at it. "All the stars in the sky circle the earth, and they are moved by the Primum Mobile, which is itself moved by its own love for God. So yes, in a real sense is the sunrise a miracle." But though he said these words, he had not truly believed in the miracle of the sunrise until he had heard it described by the man who had not seen it in years.
"The Prime Mover," said the man. "There are few left who believe in such things. But, somehow, in this place, it seems more true."
The Knight then believed the man to be from a place far from his own, then, not only by his accent and attire, but because he said that few believed what the Knight had said. Truly, most of the people had little time for such questions, but the vision of the universe was rather accepted by the educated. But such things seemed unimportant (though he could not say why), and he asked, "What is this place, then?"
"Maybe he can tell us more," the man said, pointing over the river. There the Knight saw a boat approaching, seemingly from the gate on an errand to retrieve the visitors and bring them nearer. Nearer to what they could not say, but they felt the need to pass through the gate and walk onward.
"He is still far," said the Knight, "but it is clear that he comes here. I am called Thomas of Kent, Knight of the King."
"I am Richard," said the man. "Of Texas, I suppose. I am a preacher."
"Apreechre?" repeated the Knight, confused. He had not recognized the land called Techaz, or understood why this man would have so many names.
"It's my job," said the man. "I teach people about the Bible."
"You are a Priest then, Richard Apreechre of Teckaz?"
The man laughed. "It's just Richard. But, yes, you could say that I am a Priest, though not many in my denomination would use that term."
"But you are of the Christian faith, Father?" He said this because he understood little of what the other man had said, and thought perhaps it was because this stranger was a holdover from the pagan days or from the lands of the far southeast, though he was certainly too pale for the latter option.
But the man answered, "I am."
There was silence then, and the two men waited. The boat was drawing nearer, and would reach them in only moments. There was a man upon it, but though he held an oar in the water, he did not seem to be using it. His hair was golden blond, as the Knight's was, but it was curly as a child's and his face was as white as snow, while the Knight's was tanned deeply by the sun.
"Thomas," said the Priest, also watching the approaching boat. "I fear that this is a dream, that I am only remembering what it is like to be young and strong, and that I will wake. I have not had this body for many decades, and I have not seen since I was sixty-five. But now I am twenty-five at the most, and I do not even need glasses. Do you think this to be a dream?"
"Mayhaps," said the Knight. He looked at the Priest, looking upon his face this time rather than his clothes. Truly was the man young, as young as the Knight himself, with a round face that hardly had a wrinkle, even as the man furrowed his brow in worry. He had brown hair, neatly groomed — more so, in fact, than the Knight would have thought possible. His nose was large and bent, and his lips narrow, but he was not an ugly man at all, for his blown eyes were large and calming, even in his own sorrow.
"Maybe," echoed the Priest, turning away again. "But this does not feel like a dream, and so I also fear another option. I was very old, Thomas. I do not know how old you were before you reached this place, but you may have been very old as well. Could it be that we are dead?"
The Knight had not been old, but he touched his belly cautiously, remembering suddenly a part of what had come before. He trembled.
"Yes, Father," he said breathlessly. "Yes, I believe that is it."
The boat reached the shore, and the boatman tilted his oar. "Be welcome here," he said in a singsong voice and a sparkling smile. "Be welcome and follow."
There were no words from the two men. They simply stepped forward, knowing somehow that it was as it should have been. But as they did the eyes of the boatman opened wide. It was no common sort of shock that might happen at any time during the day, as when a squirrel runs out in front of a man, but a deeper concern. It may have been the first shock of the boatman's life, for he sprang from the boat, running toward the forest a few short yards away.
No, it was not a far run, and he stopped at the edge of the great mass of trees. Most the Knight recognized, for many were oaks and pines, but there were trees there he had never before seen. The leaves were growing brown on these trees, even though the air was quite warm. But it seemed to be those dead leaves that concerned the boatman so greatly.
"It cannot be," he muttered to himself.
"What's the matter?" asked the Priest.
"The leaves are dying," the boatman said.
"Does autumn come?" wondered the Knight.
The boatman turned to them in a panic, saying, "We have not had autumn in millennia, and we are not meant to have it again."
The two men tried to speak to the boatman, but he had found a new distraction, and he went to the river, watching as the wind stirred the water.
"Do you see?" he demanded of them. "Do you not understand?" It was clear that the men did not, and so he continued, "The water stirs. A storm is coming. You do not understand what sort of omens these are, and you may never understand, but it bodes ill for us. But come, nothing can be done here. We must reach the gate."
CHAPTER 2
In Which the Men Approach the Gate, and More is Learned of the Land
Together the three men boarded the ship, and the action seemed perfectly natural to the Knight, and thought nothing amiss, even though he was still unsure of where he was or where he was going. The longing within him to reach the gate caused him to trust the boatman implicitly, and more surprisingly, it did not really bother the Knight that he felt such trust.
The two visitors sat in the small boat, but the benches were low, and it was an uncomfortable position for them. But there was no real pain, and they settled in within a few moments. The boatman himself stood at the back of the vessel and set his oar into the waters, and their journey was begun. It was the only time his oar was lowered, for he seemed to be able to direct the boat with mere thoughts. They would speed up or slow with only a movement of his eyes. It was surely a trip upon the breath of Magic herself, and the dust from her hand seemed to lull them toward the opposite shore softly, despite the increasingly choppy conditions of the water.
Before them the wall rose, and the Knight realized that he had misjudged the true width of the river, and therefore the height of the wall. They seemed to travel endlessly, and still the shore seemed as far away as it had been at the beginning, and ever did the wall rise, making the greatest castles of England seem as playthings made of clay. So too did the gate grow, and they saw the portcullis then: iron bars the width and breadth of two men, and the height of a mountain.
"Where are we, boatman?" asked the Priest.
"This is the passageway," said the boatman cryptically. "This is the journey; this is the quest. This is the land of dreams and stories, where all men visit in their day, and then remain when the days are done."
"Is this Heaven?" asked the Priest.
"No, Heaven is farther on."
"Is this Hell?"
"No, Hell is farther on as well, though in a different direction. This is the road to either, but not both."
"You can reach Heaven from here?"
"Some can, but not by the choices they make here. This is the land of stories, but no stories are made here. All originate elsewhere, and they come completed. It is here that a man may see how his life was truly played, and how each choice created another. It is also the place of dreaming, where the tales of countless men are available to anyone with the imagination to come here on his own."
"Does this place have a name?"
"Many, but the best is Faërie."
The Priest's voice grew rasp, and his head hung, when he asked, "We are dead then?"
"In the first world you are. You have now passed on to the second world."
"And from here?"
"To your destination, whichever of the two that may be."
"Can you tell us which?" asked the Knight, his hand squeezing nervously on his sword.
"I cannot."
They road in silence for a while, and the far coast grew slightly closer, even while the coast beside the forest seemed to dash away and disappear. So hard was it to see things there as they truly were, for everything was too large for them; their size distorted their perspective.
"Dark clouds come," said the Knight, looking toward the west. Truly, billows of storm clouds came, blotting out part of the sky into blackness.
"I see them," answered the boatman, not without a tinge of fear. His earlier panic was not gone, but no longer accessible by his words, but certainly within his eyes.
"You are surprised to see them?" the Knight asked.
"No," answered the boatman. "I saw the omens before, and I knew they would come now. But I fear. Something wicked has appeared in the west. We always knew it was possible, and yet it is not something I remember happening in many, many centuries."
"What has happened?" asked the Priest.
"Something has escaped from the Evil Land to taint the dreams of another. Someone is using Faërie to spread his own darkness."
"What can we do?" asked the Priest.
"We?" laughed the boatman. "We will do nothing. You will go on your way as all men do when they arrive here. As for myself, it is not my duty. I ferry people from the bank to the gate. The Gatekeeper is in charge of controlling pathways into Faërie. It will be his job to make this right; I can do nothing."
The Knight hadn't noticed how close they had come to the shore, but when he turned, the wall consumed his vision, and he could see nothing else. It wasn't until the boat thumped upon the bank that he looked down and realized that he had landed.
"Walk through the gate and then upon your path," said the boatman as he set down his oar. "The Gatekeeper will be able to help you, but you will know your own way. No one has ever been lost within Faërie — not even in a dream."
CHAPTER 3
In Which the Two Travellers Find Their Paths and Part Company, and They Learn of the Gatekeeper's Quest
Mighty was the gate, and grand, and so wide and tall that remnants of clouds seemed to linger about the upper sections of the portcullis, within the arched roof of the entry. The great iron bars, as wide as pillars, were opened halfway, but even halfway was high enough to accommodate the greatest ship that the Knight had ever imagined (for though this was no water passage, the Knight could think of nothing larger to make the comparison). Wide it was; so much so that the edges wallowed in a haze as the men stepped off the boat before the mighty portal. Wooden doors stood open, and their mighty crossbeam lay upon the ground within the gate, and even that beam was as tall as any man, and an army would be required to place it upon the doors.
"After this," said the boatman as he too disembarked, "one more gate will you each cross. At least one that is worth the mention. I cannot say what gate it will be, but it will dwarf this one, to be sure."
"I cannot believe that any gate will dwarf this one," said the Knight, his eyes transfixed on the little details of the structure.
"It will, mark me." With that the boatman sat on the bank, waiting for his next passenger to arrive. The two men did not question this action, for they inherently knew that his time as their guide was over.
Forward did they walk, but only a few yards were they in the open, for the wall had been built right against the bank, and already were they under the cover of the gate. Awed the size of the path, the Knight looked about him, but could see no obvious defenses, save only the portcullis and gate itself, both of which had already been passed. There was no guard there, and so the men walked forward.
"No one could have built this," said the Priest.
"No man," said the Knight. "No Magic that I know either. Not even the Romans had built such a wall."
"Do the Romans rate above Magic, then?"
"Did you know the Romans in your land?"
The Priest grinned and shook his head.
"If you had, then you would have understood my words." His eyes darted about like a child's as he told a tale, saying, "There was a time in my kingdom, when I was a boy, when the lord decided to build a bridge against a minor river. There was a Roman bridge a couple of miles away, but new trade routes were forming more to the south, and a new bridge would save much time. His best men built the bridge, and then he called for a blessing to be placed upon it, and the Priests responded. The Christian Priest came and prayed in Latin and sprinkled Holy Water on it. Then the pagan Priests came, and they too performed their rituals. The lord accepted their prayers also, for he was not terribly selective when it came to religion, as long as the bridge held. When it was over, by the lord's reckoning, there were fifteen gods watching over that bridge. That very Spring brought a terrible storm that lasted three weeks, and all the land was flooded. Even the lord had to abandon the first level of his castle, for the water had reached even there. When the three weeks were done, the lord's bridge was gone without a trace. The Roman bridge two miles away had not even been damaged. Tell me then how Magic can create more wondrous things than Romans can."
The Priest was smiling, his eyes ever upon the Knight, even while the Knight's gaze was elsewhere. He told his companion, "You tell stories well."
"I am often away from home," said the Knight, "without a bard. We learn to entertain ourselves upon the road. I have known Priests to tell stories well also."
"I suppose that's what we do," said the Priest. "Our faith is a story, after all. It is merely a story that can have implications in real life."
The Knight nodded, but said nothing. Instead, a voice came to them from their right, saying, "All good stories are felt in real life."
The men turned to find an old man beside them, not ten yards away, and yet neither heard this stranger approach. He wore a dark cloak, which clinched his thin form tightly. Heavily he leaned upon his staff, which was made of gnarled oak. Little could they see of his face, but what they could see was worn by time, and strands of thin white hair hung below his face.
"I have met you before," said the Knight, puzzled, "and yet I cannot place your name."
"I feel that I have met you as well," said the Priest.
"In dreams and tales," said the man, "but nowhere else. I have lived here my entire life, and will remain until the last man crosses this gate and cleanses Faërie. Never have I been to your land, and yet no man who walks though this place with more than ten years of experience has failed to recognize me."
"What do they call you?" asked the Knight.
"Death, some. Without the scythe am I still called Death, even though that is not what I do. Charon I have been called, though I would have thought that the boatman would have been mistaken for him more, since he is the only actually escorting someone across a river. Still, it is not so. Heimdall is somewhat inappropriate, considering my physical form in comparison to what Heimdall's supposed appearance. Anubis is worse, for, though I have a long nose, I've never thought myself to look that much like a jackal."
The Knight did not know those names, save Death and Heimdall, but he had to laugh at the way the man smirked the last line of his speech.
But the Priest was not satisfied, and he questioned further, saying, "What do you call yourself?"
"I am not in the habit of calling myself anything, but those who have placed me here call me simply The Gatekeeper."
There was a short silence at this, and then the Knight said, "Where do we go from here?"
"Where the path leads, of course," the Gatekeeper said. "You cannot go back to the last world, but a way will appear to you here. Either you will be shown the narrow road, or you will walk on into darkness and not return."
"Then it is true?" asked the Priest. "We are dead?"
"It is true."
"And this is Heaven?"
"Not yet. This is merely the end of the road."
The Gatekeeper began to walk, and the two men followed. Toward the far end of the gate they walked, but the wall seemed as wide as the river, and they walked for some time in silence. At last the far side became clear to them, and they saw the dark clouds to the west, growing more prevalent with every moment. But no one mentioned them, and they continued to walk. Also ahead were grassy hills with only scattered trees. A dirt path continued on from the gate, over the first hill and then disappearing from their point of view. But in the distance the Knight saw a great light, nearly as bright as the sun, but purely white, and there was no flaw in it.
"What is that?" the Knight asked.
"That is a castle," said the Gatekeeper. "It is where I live."
"It is yours?" asked the Priest.
"No, I am but a resident there."
"It is magnificent."
Farther still did they walk, and at last they were out of the gate. The land of Faërie came upon them suddenly, but still could they not see beyond a few hills before them. The land seemed oversized, as the gate was, and too grand to be contained.
"The path," the Priest said, looking off to the side.
"You have found the narrow way," said the Gatekeeper.
The Knight looked, but he could find nothing there but grass. He looked briefly for a trail of some sort, but nothing did he see. "The path is this way," he said, pointing weakly toward the dirt trail that lead through the hills.
The Priest seemed not to understand, and he said, "Do you not see the Golden Road, Thomas? Look here." He stepped forward, and suddenly his feet were off the ground, and he was hovering before the Knight.
"What sorcery is this?" asked the Knight, drawing his blade.
"He does not see it," said the Priest, almost pleading with the Gatekeeper.
"His is the wide road," said the Gatekeeper. "It cannot be helped."
The Knight did not understand, but the Priest began to. "Where does his road lead?"
"To his end," said the Gatekeeper. "He will walk to the edge of Faërie and fall over the side. It will be a road of pain and disappointment, but there is no other road open to him. If he resists and remains here, even then will he be traveling, and he will fall over the edge without taking a step. Each is bound upon his own path."
"No," said the Priest, stepping back down to the ground.
Still did the Knight not comprehend, but he only wanted to begin his journey. It was as though the road compelled him, and he wanted to move on. Why the Priest was so upset, he could not say.
"Is there nothing he can do?" asked the Priest.
The Gatekeeper replied, "No. His choice was made in life. There are no new stories here, only old ones repeated. This is a passageway for a road already chosen. We walk it, but cannot turn back."
The Priest closed his eyes, but then looked again to his own road, the one that the Knight could not see. When he opened them again, he was looking at the Knight, and he said, "I wish you well on your road." And he began to climb.
The Gatekeeper began to walk also, but not toward the gate, but toward the castle of light in the distance. The Knight called to him, saying, "Do you now go home to rest?"
"Not at all," said the Gatekeeper. "I go to consult my lord about the storm. And then I will walk again to solve the problem that has caused it."
"May I come with you?" asked the Knight, and both the Gatekeeper and the Priest stopped suddenly, both men turning toward the young warrior. The Knight staggered, but said, "My road seems to pass by the castle, and I would not mind the company on the journey. Besides, I may be able to help you."
The Gatekeeper looked stern. "You cannot redeem yourself, Thomas. It cannot be done. Your end will remain your end no matter what actions you take now."
The Knight said, "I must not have made the right choices in my life, for the two of you to look at me in the way that you do, but I made them according to my nature. It is my nature to help when help is needed. I will not slow you, and I have been known to be resourceful."
The Gatekeeper considered him. "Very well. So long as you know that you will get nothing in return for your assistance, I would not be averse to a companion."
"Me too," said the Priest, already coming off of his path. "I will come too."
"Your path does not lead in this direction," protested the Gatekeeper. "Go upon your way, Richard."
"By the fact that I was shown the narrow road should you understand a little of my nature, Gatekeeper. Would it do any harm for me to follow?"
"Some have done as you request," said the Gatekeeper. "Some have stepped off that trail and explored this land, but there is nothing in this land that will not be forgotten the second you cross the next gate, and you will feel that as we travel. You will know what your soul desires, and it is not this. Few have gotten passed the castle, and fewer still into the next land, but you may come also. I am not permitted to stop you. Each man is allowed to take his own path through Faërie, but the call of his true path forbids a lengthy visit. You each will be drawn eventually down your own paths. Until then, you are welcome to follow me."
The Gatekeeper began his walk with the Knight next to him. The Priest took a look back at his golden walkway, glittering in the sun like a thousand stars, leading into the white clouds of the east. He longed to go back, but then he thought of the Knight. Only hours had they known each other, and yet the Priest felt pity upon his companion. He was sure that the Gatekeeper was right, that there was no longer a way to redeem the man's soul.
And yet he would try to find one. That is what his life's work had been about.
So he turned toward the white light in the distance and began his journey after the other two men.
© Copyright 2004 by Paul Lytle. All rights reserved.
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