He found himself on a grey and wind-chased plain. The grass moved like waves of water, churned by endless winds. In patches, high above, the sky was the most translucent of twilight blues. But there were clouds too. Across one side of the sky, the clouds were patchy, white and pale grey: they let through the dusky sky above. But on the other side of the sky, the clouds were so dark, they looked as if they were sucking all light into them. The slanting rays of a very faint and low sun shone through rain, as it fell far off. Those rains were visible as long, streaking lines, raking the earth somewhere distant, but threatening to sweep closer with every breath of the air.
At his heel, something stirred.
It was the shadow-thing. The creature that had been moving in and out of his dreams.
“I know you,” said the boy.
“Yes,” said the shadow. “Tssch. You were supposed to forget me utterly, tsch, but I find that you are hard to put into a forgetfulness of enchantment. Are you a sorcerer? You don’t have that appearance, nor the reek of one.”
“No,” said the boy. “I’ve no name. That’s all.”
“Ahhh,” replied the creature. “That would be enough. It is something for me to think on then. Tasssch. You will remember this dream–most likely–and mayhaps that is a good thing?” The creature looked suddenly alert, poking its nose into the air, twitching shadow-whiskers, twisting its shadow-tail. “Follow me.”
The creature sped off, darting this way and that, slinking through the long grass. The boy found it surprisingly difficult to follow: his movement was slow and hindered. It felt as if he were wading in water, and not a field of grass at all.
The shadow-thing led him to a rise in the earth: a low ridge, that as they ascended it, became the beginnings of a hill. The boy trudged up the hill, but stopped dead when he reached the top.
All about the crest of the hill was a ring of standing stones, as broken and jutting as teeth in a dead man’s mouth. They stuck from the earth, making dark and jagged shapes all around. Over the surface of the stones crawled ancient carvings. Whorls and twists of pattern. Sharp angles. Knots and angry spirals. The carvings were sickening to look at, and seemed even to squirm and crawl over the stones. In the midst of the stones there was a man. He was cloaked in a long silver-black length of cloth, studded with sparkling stones like stars, trimmed with rich furs. His back was turned to the boy, and he was standing in the shadow of the biggest and most unpleasant of the stones. About his neck, the longish locks of his hair were lifted and thrashed by the winds. On his brow was a circlet: a thin crown of ivory and silver, wrought into the shape of tangled flowers and leering faces.
Hardly daring to breathe, the boy inched closer.
At his feet, the shadow-creature stirred. “Tssch. Look. They come. He has called them and they return.”
Down the hill, away off in the distance the shape of phantoms approached. There must be been a dozen of them at the least. They were radiant with ghost-fire, and so beautiful. The boy realised with a shock that these were the white ghaists: but so much more lovely, and sad, pitiable, wonderful, terrible and terrifying than they had been in the waking world. Here, in the dream, the truth of them shone through their ghostly shapes. Just to look at them made the boy feel the deepest, worst sorrow he had ever experienced. The wave of sadness was unnatural and potent.
The shadow-thing spoke: “Tssch. If you had a name you would run up to them weeping and pawing at them, and that would be the end of you. As it is, their power has strength, I think? Tsch.”
“It does.”
He found it painful to watch them, as they drew themselves up to the hill. After half-a-minute or so, he had to look away, return his gaze to the man in the richly threaded cloak and thin crown of silver-and-white.
“What news have you?” said the man. His voice held not the depth or resonance that the boy had expected. It seemed too youthful, and almost creaky or strained.
But before the ghosts could answer, one of them cast an eye at the boy. He felt the coolness of the gaze stab him. The man turned then, startled. He remained standing in shadow, only illuminated from behind by the faint dusk’s light. His features were impossible to make out, though a slight sheen of light glinted across his two eyes.
“Who are you? Who spies on me?”
“Time to go,” whispered thew shadow. ‘Tassch.”
The boy awoke with a start. He sat bolt upright.