Steven Frankos
The Jewel of Equilibrant
•1• Dream
'Have you no fear of dreams?'
The voice arose from the eddying tidepools of red and silver light, piercing the stillness with its harsh, rasping tone.
'Know you not that dreams have the powers to crush and to rend and to shred?'
Matthew Logan blinked his eyes repeatedly, staring at the spiraling vortex of blood and metal that encircled him. A disorienting sensation of wrongness swelled up around the young man, and, frantically, he wondered where he was.
'Most vivid during the REM stage of sleep, during what doctors call the paradoxical stage of sleep, do dreams descend upon the sleeper like lions upon their prey. There they lay bare your deepest fears, claw open your best- kept secrets, and feast upon your anguish with ghoulish delight. Can you not hear their laughter?'
The wheezing, disembodied voice slowly sank into the vacuum of lights and colors, and Logan knew it would not be back in that form. Instead, another rattle began to reverberate through Logan's ears, and a faint, shuddering chuckle rose up out of the red and silver glare around him. Again the overpowering sense of mismatchment fluttered about Logan, causing a small voice in the back of his mind to tell him he did not belong.
A hazy figure took form within the blaze of red and silver; quick, brisk strides bringing it closer to where Logan stood.
The laughter began to recede, but the oddness of the area about him refused to depart.
The whirling gyration of the fluid colors quickened as the lean form stepped up to face Logan. Reflecting the red and silver illumination of the whirlpool, the gaunt figure peered down at the young man, and its frown was highlighted by the glare.
Trying to slough off the feeling of disharmony, Logan stared up at the form. Yellow-white hair, tinted with reds and silvers, dangled from the sides of the domed head, descending to the shoulder and beyond. The top of the stranger's head was bald, glistening as the spiraling colors danced upon its naked surface. Throughout the insistent gleam, Logan could make out the neat three-piece suit which garbed the newcomer.
The stranger's eyes reflected his frown.
'Traverse not into folly,' he told Logan in the same rasping wheeze as before. 'I am sorry.'
The red and silver glow brightened as the long-haired businessman lowered his head solemnly. Unexpectedly, he jerked back up and his eyes were ablaze with fire.
'Take heed,' he snarled, eyes flickering, 'you who fears not dreams. Learn to decipher dreams from reality, unreality from falsehood, falsehood from truth, or doom shall fall upon your worlds!'
Logan cringed as the wrongness that surrounded him seeped into his flesh and made him helpless.
The frown on the businessman's face had been replaced by a murderous smirk. 'Know you not that dreams have the power to kill?'
Matthew Logan woke up. With a murmured curse, he looked about his cluttered bedroom as his eyes adjusted to the dim rays of early morning light that seeped between the shutters. His black hair was slick with sweat, and the covers of his bed lay twisted and coiled like serpents of fabric. Inhaling deeply, he gently settled back down, staring up at the dark ceiling. He feared if he closed his eyes the dream would return with all its vivid colors and sounds.
That was a damn interesting one, he told himself, wiping perspiration from his brow. A long-haired businessman? And what the hell was all that about dreams?
Muttering at the loss of sleep the nightmare cost him, Logan continued to stare at the ceiling until the sun crested the eastern mountains and sent brighter slivers of daylight into his apartment. Gradually he dressed, put in his contacts, shaved, ate something for breakfast, and started for the door. As he slipped into his dark blue sweat jacket and sweat pants and headed out of his apartment for his early morning jog, the scratchy, asthmatic voice went on taunting him: 'Have you no fear of dreams?'
Something filled with color darted past upon the wings of the wind. A cool breeze filled the morning sky, swirling into the fine, thin mist that hung above the street. The snowy haze drifted lazily along with the wind, hovering over the sidewalk. Again a shred of brilliance danced upon the breeze, sparkling like a misplaced moonstone.
Matthew Logan briskly jogged into view, his sight half-obscured by the curtain of fog dangling above his head. The morning breeze strengthened once more, ruffling Logan's black hair as it whipped the mist away. The crisp, cool air invigorated the young man, and Logan slowed to a halt, gazing out over the deserted street to his right. All thoughts of his troubled sleep were behind him, and, as dreams tended to do, his nightmare had faded from his conscious mind. Inhaling, Logan brushed his dark hair out of his face and began to resume his pace.
Something screamed past Logan's ear, flickering with eerie color. Eyes wide, the young man tried to follow the invisible blasts of air; confusion washed over him like a great wave of water, and, wonderingly, he scratched his chin.
'By the bubbling brew of Fraviar!' an accented, but understandable, voice boomed.
Logan wheeled about. The exclamation resounded about him, and his blue eyes narrowed as he glared at the empty field to his left. Someone was probably hiding in the tall grass, he confirmed to himself. Don't know why someone would be fool enough to be out here at six-thirty in the morning, though.
'Somebody there?' he called.
His answer was the moan of the wind.
As Logan took a cautious step into the field, the knee-high stalks of weeds bowed respectfully in his direction as another wave of wind swept over them. The abrasive clang of metal striking metal rang out across the empty field, and Logan ducked instinctively. An agonized scream pierced the breeze as the wind shifted.
'Jesus Christ!' Logan exclaimed, glancing about him. 'What's going on here?'
Blinking his eyes, the young jogger peered at the weed-engulfed lot before him. He no longer suspected someone hiding amongst the brush-the noises he heard were too exact and came from everywhere at once. No, Logan stopped wondering if someone was playing a joke and feared for his sanity. Hearing things in the wind was impossible!
The desolation of the field and street surrounding him suddenly focused in on the young man, and Logan wished he was not alone. He was a determined loner-independent and self-assured-but, in certain circumstances, a companion could be handy.
The mist parted like a foggy curtain as the wind tore through it. The snort of a horse erupted from the breeze, and Logan jumped in fright, spun backwards, and leapt to one side.
'All right!' he yelled, confusion and fear combining to form an odd mixture within him. 'That's it! Who the hell is there?'
'Who the what is where?' the same booming voice inquired from nowhere. 'Don't bother me with blasted questions when I'm fighting for my life!'
Logan turned on his heel, eyeing the empty field. 'Who said that?'
'I did!' the voice retorted.
This is too much! the young man concluded. I'm going to go home, take some extra-strength Tylenol, and go back to bed! Then I'm going to call the nearest mental institution with a vacant room!
A shrill shriek shattered the misty morning, spearing Logan's forehead and setting his mind afire. In agony, Logan clamped his hands to the sides of his head, trying to shut out the horrid screech that filled the street and his body. Unexpected pain wracked his nerves, and Logan crashed to his knees, gritting his teeth.
