Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
C row and Simeon sat across from each other at a long table under a tree, the lawn beneath them dotted with tiny white flowers. Although there were many chairs, nobody else was there. For once, they were both fully clothed: Crow in jeans and white T-shirt, Simeon, absurdly, in full evening wear. “I’ve never dressed like this in my life!” he protested.
“But you look delicious.” Unlike Simeon, Crow wore a hat, a baseball cap emblazoned with the image of a black bird flying against a yellow background.
“You should be using your strength for healing instead of dreaming.”
“I can do both.” Crow leaned back in his chair and an enormous teapot appeared between them, nearly blocking Simeon’s view of him. Simeon tried to move it, but it wouldn’t budge, so instead he moved one seat to his left.
Simeon glanced around. There were several oak trees, a small cottage some distance away, and beyond that what appeared to be a vast cornfield. The faultless sky was almost impossibly blue, and the air smelled of fresh hay and chamomile. “It’s quite a pleasant dream, at least.”
“I guess I’m due those once in a while. Do you mind just relaxing here for a while?”
“No.”
Butterflies flitted around on ridiculously large sherbet-hued wings. A plate of small cakes appeared beside the teapot, each with eat me written out in currants. Crow looked at them and shook his head. “Nope. No way. I have no intention of shrinking or growing or turning into a deck of cards.”
“Alice doesn’t turn into a deck of cards. Besides, I rather think you’re the Mad Hatter.”
That made Crow snort. “And who are you? There are no rooks in the story, at least that I remember.”
Before Simeon could decide how to answer, a small wooden desk appeared at one end of the table, piled with papers and containing an inkwell. Crow stared at it for a moment. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
“Dunno. It’s meant to?—”
A raspy croak interrupted Simeon. He and Crow both twisted their heads to see a black bird perched on the other end of the table. Not a rook, but a raven, and it was at least twice as big as it ought to be. It looked at both of them and croaked again, ruffling its feathers a bit as if settling into place.
“Who’s that, then?” asked Simeon.
“Hell if I know.”
“Maybe it’s one of them from the Tower, yeah? Or….” Simeon trailed off as he saw that the small cottage was on fire. Flames shot impossibly high; black smoke billowed into the sky. Although he could feel the heat even from this far away, he found himself walking closer, Crow at his side and the raven hopping along with them.
They all stopped when the heat became too intense, and they watched the fire consume the cottage, reducing it to ashes within minutes. Then Crow crossed his arms. “I wonder if that’s supposed to be my family’s house or yours.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“A better question, gentlemen, is why the cottage burned.”
Simeon and Crow turned to see a new arrival—an older man in a suit, with a trim white beard and moustache—who now stood beside the raven. He held an unlit cigar between two fingers and spoke with what Simeon thought might be a German accent.
“You,” said Crow.
“What better place for me to appear than in a dream?”
Crow shrugged. “Okay. I’ll bite. Why did the cottage burn?”
The man smiled. “A burning house may symbolize many things. It may be a manifestation of anxieties, especially those concerning family and self-identity.”
That made Crow scoff. “You think everything is a manifestation of anxiety.”
“You must admit, it is a powerful driving force in human behavior. A fire may also signal a desire for transformation. Such as in the mythology of the phoenix, yes?” He pointed his cigar at the raven and its tail elongated—the black feathers turning gold, azure, and scarlet. Its eyes glowed like coals before it made an indignant squawk and became a raven again. “Are you sure?” the man asked the bird. “Hesiod tells us that the phoenix lives nine times longer than the raven.”
The raven flapped its wings and hopped farther away.
When the man moved his hand back and forth, Simeon half expected to be transformed into something else but then realized the man was only indicating that Simeon and Crow were together. “Fire may also represent the flames of passion.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and stuck the cigar between his lips. Then he disappeared.
“This,” grumbled Crow, “is why I refuse to see a shrink, no matter how messed up my head is.”
“It’s not messed up, though, love. You’re remarkably stable for someone who’s gone through so much.”
The raven made a noise that could only be interpreted as outrage and flapped over to land between them. “This is utter nonsense,” it said in perfect English—and in a recognizable voice.
“Did you bring him in as well?” Simeon asked Crow, feeling a bit jealous. Crow’s dreams were his place.
“I don’t know.” Crow glared at the raven. “Are you live or are you Memorex?”
It wasn’t easy for a raven to look confused, but this one did. “What?”
“Are you the real Bran or a… what’s that line that Scrooge says? An undigested bit of beef? Or whatever was in those pies. Frankly, I’d rather not know.”
Simeon gently pushed the raven with his foot to move him out of the way. “You’re quite funny in your sleep, love.”
“Great. I’m sure Sigmund would have something to say about that too. But right now I’m trying to figure out if Mr. Nevermore over there is your brother or a figment. It’s kind of a philosophical riddle. I think, therefore I am, but how do I know whether someone else is thinking?”
That was, Simeon had to admit, an interesting question. Of course, they’d know when they all woke whether Bran had truly flown into Crow’s dream, but at the moment none of them seemed inclined to leave.
“This dream isn’t interfering with your healing, is it? I’d rather see you whole than watch you puzzle things out.”
“I think I’m fine.” Crow patted Simeon’s shoulder and turned to Bran. “Any idea why you’re a raven instead of a rook?”
“I’ve been told that’s what my name means. A taunt by my parents, perhaps.”
“Or a message. My last name also means raven. My mother chose it deliberately, sort of as a protective measure, I think.”
“My mother protected me from nothing,” said Bran. “She intended for me to die, purely because of a prophecy that might very well have involved him and not me.” Bran pointed a wing in Simeon’s direction.
“I feel like we should have this conversation when we’re awake.”
Simeon was inclined to agree, but when he opened his mouth to say so, no sound came out. His skin felt raw, as if it had been scrubbed with nettles, and his insides felt…hollow. He thought of the helium balloons sometimes sold at the carnival, but that wasn’t a good comparison because he didn’t think any helium would stay inside him. When he was a boy he’d owned a shirt—his only shirt—so worn and thin and frayed that it was more holes than fabric. Although he’d repeatedly tried to sew it together, on one especially damp day the shirt had simply disintegrated into several scraps of nearly transparent cloth. That was what he was right now, and it didn’t quite hurt because he didn’t feel much of anything anymore, but there was a sort of ghost of an ache and?—
“Simeon!”
He woke on the floor of the lodging room, desperately gasping for air.