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THE STREET OF DREAMS
I had never before been down the street of dreams. That dirty little alleyway that had swallowed so many was not for me. They would emerge with eyes open, but not seeing. They would wander aimlessly through the bazaar until they fell down somewhere. They would not eat or take water, but would finally waste away and die. Even the rats and flies would not go near them. I'd heard all the songs and stories from a hundred strolling minstrels in the bazaar. They sang that the street of dreams frees the spirit to go directly to heaven--an attractive prospect to one as poor and unwashed as I. But still I did not go. Life, as bad as it was, seemed more a solid prospect than an uncertain death. Still, there burned in me a fascination about the place. Curiosity inevitably will lead to my destruction. Of that I am certain. Day after day, from my begging spot I watched people enter or leave. Some did one or the other with purpose and a clear head, others indeed fulfilled the bards' lamentations, stumbling drunkenly onto or off of the street of dreams. Day after day, I resisted the temptation, until finally, I could resist no more. One morning early, I entered the street of dreams. My intention was simply to look around a bit, touch nothing and emerge intact. I hadn't taken more than a dozen steps when a hand clamped down on my shoulder from behind. A raw bolt of terror shot through my entire body. I would have jumped a foot had I not been held solidly in place. I wriggled desperately, trying escape my captor but to no avail. "Here, little brother," came a deep, rumbling voice. "Do you think so little of yourself that you would enter here?" The pressure on my shoulder suddenly eased slightly. I wriggled and spun to meet my captor. The sight of him startled me even more. He was huge, twice or more high to me, larger by far than most men of the marketplace. My head was roughly even to his belt buckle, which was highly polished brass and formed into two hands shaking. From his wide black leather belt hung a sword very nearly longer than I was tall. It was not a narrow blade like those carried by the guards of the bazaar, but a double-edged broadsword, the two-handed kind with a rope-wound grip. I could not speak to answer his query. My voice was frozen. He was far more imposing than the street, though his grip on me had not been not rough or heavy. It was as if time had stopped completely and I'd become the statue of a boy rooted to the cobblestone before a statue of a giant. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest, rapidly, like the silversmith's hammer as he shaped a piece. I could feel sweat trickle down the side of my face. Suddenly breaking free of his grip completely, I bolted around and past him, out of the alley and into the moving throng of the bazaar. Once safely invisible, I stopped and turned toward where I had been, only to see that he was looking at me and laughing. Evidently my panicked flight was greatly amusing to him. Then, as I watched, he turned away and strode off down the street of dreams. I could not help myself. I followed. For the second time that morning I took my life in my hands and entered the street of dreams. He walked with a warrior's confidence and purpose. He did not look behind him. As I was silent, my bare feet stirring only dust, he really had no reason to do so. It became uncommonly dark for near midday, the farther from the bazaar entrance we moved. The buildings that bordered the narrow way had no doors or windows opening onto it. I had little difficulty following. Although his dark cloak made him nearly invisible in the gloom, the huge man's yellow hair was easy to see. Though he had the demeanor of a warrior, he exercised none of the caution I'd imagined someone would in a place as dangerous as this street was supposed to be. He simply strode easily along as though there were nothing to see or do. As quickly as an instant -- I still don't know where they came from -- he was suddenly surrounded by four swordsmen. My heart in my throat, I ducked into a nearby alcove, from which I could clearly see. These were grimy-looking maggots that confronted him, with festering sores on their arms and faces. There was a vacant wildness in their eyes that I wished dearly I wasn't close enough to see. Each grinned malevolently, baring teeth more rotten than the other. "A gentleman visits our street," croaked one, coughing a guttural laugh and animating his sword with a swish through the air. "With a fine cloak that would keep me warm at night," added a second. They began to circle him, slowly, mindful of his size, but confident. At that moment, the giant had not yet drawn his sword. He turned with them, moved as they moved, as though in the slow rhythm of a dance. They sized each other up as fighters often do. Each waited for another to make the first move. Suddenly one lunged from Justify and behind, but peripheral vision undid his attack. The giant warrior quarter spun and brought his forearm up in a snap-jerk, dropping him where he stood. Another waded into the fray, then crumpled to the cobblestones as if pole-axed. The other two immediately cut and ran off into the shadows. I was amazed. He had not drawn his sword. It certainly wasn't magic. Briefly, he knelt beside each and examined them. Satisfied, he rose and resumed his walk. He pressed forward and still, despite my growing fear, I followed. I should not have. My instincts demanded that I retreat. As I passed the two fallen attackers I saw that they were now corpses. In the forehead of each was imbedded a tiny feathered dart. I learned a little about the warrior in that instant. We of the bazaar know weapons. Many in the bazaar sell them. Those deadly quick movements of defense the warrior had displayed had proven deadly to his attackers, yet no blow had been struck. I was in awe. Anyone able to employ a wrist dart shooter with this kind of confidence and accuracy was very formidable indeed. I quickened my pace to catch up. In the event that anything grabbed me, I wanted him nearby. Side alleys now appeared and branched away. They were short, dead-ended, and even more dimly lit. Sinister noises and shadowy shapes drove fear down my throat like lumpy gruel. Courage had already started to drain away from me, when there stepped out of the gloom between, us one of those two who'd run away. Sword was drawn and readied for a high slash, he was in within arm's reach of the warrior. I tried to scream, "LOOK OUT!", but my voice came out as something of a croaking squeak. That sudden sound in the silence of the alley was enough to distract the shadowed man. He whirled back upon me as an enemy behind him. My sound and his abrupt movement alerted the warrior. In a smooth single movement, he drew the huge sword from his belt, executed perfect a bent-knee round slash, and cleaved the robber at the navel. Two parts of that unfortunate, top and bottom, fell away. The man actually lived enough seconds afterward to realize what had happened to him. His death scream was muted. Blood drowned his voice as he lay face up, in pieces on the rough brick street. As for me, I was spattered head to toe with thief blood with the warrior at full ready to slay me until he recognized me. He relaxed slightly. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice a whisper, as though something would hear if he spoke louder. "Why did you follow me?" Before I could answer, the alley that branched to my right suddenly erupted in a fiery wall of blowing, searing heat. Instantly, the warrior squared around, placing himself between me and the fire, prepared to take the full force of the inferno. Flames met the flat side of his sword and were absorbed. If I had not known I was in big trouble before, I was acutely in touch with that now. Magic is no respecter of age or innocence. It kills or protects by its own reckoning and to its own design. The dragon behind the flames was undoubtedly a product of magic. This was obvious to even one so young as me. But magic or not, the inferno was real, as also the ability of the warrior's sword to absorb the heat. Sword blade still flat and facing the worm, arms outstretched and hands gripping the hilt, and with me very close behind him, the warrior turned off the street of dreams, down the side alley toward what any pair of eyes would see as certain death. He walked toward the dragon, his blade upright with the flat facing the beast, I in his shadow, quaking in genuine terror. As we approached to within a foot of its gaping maw, he reached out with his hand and touched it. I was taken aback by his audacity. At his touch, it vanished. Where an instant before had been the dragon, now stood a solid brick wall. The warrior took hold of my hand. Together, we stepped into and through the barrier. Just like that we passed indoors, into a well-lit room. There were candles everywhere and the walls were lined with silks of one-and-fifty colors. I recognized this exotic cloth from the bazaar. Pillows were scattered about on the floor, complimenting rugs of intricate design. Sitting in the midst of it all was a skinny, bearded old man with a big smile on his face, his hands outstretched widely in a traditional desert welcome gesture. The warrior spoke to him in a language that I did not recognize, at the same time gesturing in my direction. The little man laughed heartily aloud and clapped both hands sharply together three times. Two servants appeared immediately. They swooped in on me and expertly hoisted me into the air. I was carried into a side chamber, then through a set of double doors, where I was placed, clothing and all into a huge empty wooden tub. There, they shucked me of my togs and gave me an order in stern sign language to stay. My best efforts to escape were met with laughter, and gentle persuasion. Ten buckets of very hot water, and a hard scrubbing later I had long since resigned myself to my fate and halt any resistance. I returned to the main room, after this bathing, subsequently having been clothed in clean togs, even fitted with new sandals, the first my feet had seen in more than a year. The warrior and the little man were seated on pillows, on opposite sides of a low round table. They were engaged in a spirited conversation in the same unknown tongue of before. It was an animated affair. The little man's arms were waving all around and at times he became so agitated that I thought his eyes would pop out or the bulging veins on the side of his bald head would surely burst. Each point met instantly with counterpoint. I knew they were in disagreement, but they did not appear at odds, for frequently, one or the other would break into laughter after a particularly adamant statement. They did not even notice my return at first, nor did they skip a beat. Furiously, they chattered back and forth, fully ten minutes longer. Then, abruptly, the warrior fished deep into one of the pockets on his cloak, withdrawing a handful of gold coins. He presented them to the little man who seemed less than appreciative of the vast sum. Accepting them all the same, the wizened fellow handed over a rolled-up scroll tied by a bit of twine and a small bottle of green liquid. They shook hands, city style. Then the warrior rose to his feet. Noticing me for the first time, the warrior said something to the slaves in yet another language. One of them pressed his nose between his fingers, casting a grinning sideways glance at me as they all laughed. I blushed red. No matter. Old rags for new togs, the best of that bargain came to me. My clothes were in that other room along with a fair amount of my skin and an appreciable volume of bazaar street dust. Now I wore a pair of soft breeches, a gray cotton shirt, and a leather vest decorated with metal buttons. The laugh was on me. Better dressed than ever in my life, I called the deal even. With a silent wave of his hand, the warrior beckoned me to follow him. Without waiting for acknowledgement, he stepped through the wall and vanished. I bowed to the little man, then to his servants, then did likewise, finding myself back in the alley. "Don't look back," the warrior instructed as we walked toward the street of dreams. I followed his orders despite the dragon noises I heard behind me. We stopped at the corner. He dropped to one knee so as to be roughly eye-level with me. Speaking in a low tone, he said, "I don't have time to take you back to the bazaar and it's too dangerous to send you alone, so I want you to listen to what I tell you and follow my orders without hesitation when I give them. Can you do that?" I nodded that I could. "Good. Follow me and stay within a few steps." Withdrawing a small dagger in a leather scabbard from his boot he added, "Take this." I did as bid and tucked it in my belt. Once more the warrior and I, now side by side, walked the street of dreams. We had not gone far from the dragon alley when we came upon a tall, thin, dark-skinned man slouched against a wall. He had the bard songs’ empty eyes and an almost disembodied voice. He sang softly, a chant that I had heard only in stories. "Dream powder...helps you fly...dream powder...you never die..." Catching sight us, he held out a small bottle filled to the cork with white powder. "Only one copper," he intoned. "Dream powder...helps you fly..." We walked on past, ignoring him completely. His voice quickly faded from earshot, as I mused to myself, “A copper a bottle, that’s a day’s begging.” There was no time for idle thought now, because the narrow alley, the street of dreams suddenly opened into an avenue. Coming from the opposite direction, four men approached us. They did not deviate form their path despite the fact that we were headed straight for them. They were dressed in the style of the caravan merchants. The warrior slowed his pace slightly and motioned for me to stop. After ten more steps he also stopped. The most forward of the four men sauntered up to the warrior, a bold gesture, considering the length of the warrior's sword and the bulk of the warrior himself. "The boy is for sale?" Asked the man, gesturing towards me. "No," said the warrior simply. "Twelve gold pieces," Reiterated the man. "Not for sale," Repeated the warrior. "Twenty?" "Not for sale!" The warrior’s voice boomed. The caravan trader walked past him and up to me, smiling falsely. The other three chattered among themselves as he scrutinized me closely. Then he turned on his heels and returned to where the warrior stood scowling. "Fifty gold pieces!" The man exclaimed. Truthfully, I was flattered, though the prospect of slavery terrified me. There were many bard tales about the plight of caravan slaves. I wondered what made me worth so much, but not for long. At the end of his patience, the warrior reached out with one huge hand, gripped the caravan trader by the throat and lifted him until the man's feet dangled well above the cobblestones. Then he shook him three times like a rag doll. The man's face turned first red, then blue. "Not…for…sale." The warrior emphasized each word with a shake before dropping the man like a hot stone. He lay gasping for a moment, then shakily rose to his feet, brushing off his robe. He returned to his companions and began to explain something in a language I did not understand, pausing and looking warily at the warrior as we passed them by to continue up the street. As we walked, shops began to appear, housed in single and two level buildings. I saw, as we walked, several signs. “Mapmaker.” Read one sign. “Weapons,” proclaimed another. Still another said “Apothecary” in difficult to cipher lettering. I had to ask for help pronouncing that one. It was a difficult word. More people began to appear on the street as we pressed forward. Here I saw men and some notmen such as seldom venture into the bazaar. Always in the shadows seemed to lurk a danger. It was not so much by sight as by smell or taste that I noticed this presence, but rather by the hairs standing up on the back of my neck or a cold chill that passed through me, even though we now walked in bright sun. The warrior strode briskly, but not in such long steps that I could not keep up; although I must confess that my short legs were not built for even the slower speed at which we traveled. We saw outdoor peddler now, stands, carts and booths much like that of the bazaar except here they offered gemstone amulets and powders for the nose and tongue. Much of the merchandise seemed to be aimed at the trades of thieves and murderers. Twice more came offers to buy me. One came from a brown Werewolf Nautical wearing captain's stripes and a sea hat. He said he thought it would be unique to have a human cabin boy instead of an ordinary sea dog. Through it all, the warrior was single-minded. He brushed off all offers and pressed through a throng of people before finally spotting his destination. “Hyatia the serpent seller” read the sign on a particular shop. Through a window in the front, I could see a green constrictor hanging lazily on a tree branch. It looked like the one my friend Bika the basket weaver used sometimes to show his customers the strength of his wares. We entered to the tinkling of a bell above the door. I was transfixed. There were snakes of every color, variety, and disposition stacked neatly all around the room in cages of wire and glass. Most of them I did not recognize. The wire cages housed constrictors, mouse snakes, and banded corn snakes of varieties I had seen for sale in the bazaar. The glass cages were reserved for poisonous snakes. I was able to deduce that much on my own. Their wicked eyes and triangular heads punctuated many a bard’s tale. I was instructed to stay put while the warrior disappeared into a back room with a white-haired ancient, the proprietor, I assumed. As I admired the slithering wares, a face I had seen before appeared outside the window. It was that of the fourth attackers from the head of the street. He saw that saw him and he bobbed away. Concerned, I threaded my way through stacks of cages and around the ceramic jars at the rear of the shop until I reached the curtain to the back room. Pushing the curtain aside, I found the warrior. He was just completing a transaction--gold was changing hands. The warrior received a gold flask for his coinage, but he put it away before I really got a good look at it. He and the old man shook hands and we Justify--all before I had a chance to tell him of the face in the window. We turned into an alley off the street of dreams no more than one hundred feet from the serpent seller's shop. I kept a sharp eye out for enemies but none appeared. Once again in the darkness of the alley it was difficult to see anything. Shadow melted into shadow. We’d no more gone a few hundred feet into the gloom then suddenly we were back in the bazaar. The sun blinded me for a moment and I was dazzled. I glanced behind and could not make out from where we had emerged, so I followed the warrior. He led the way to the fountain at the center of the bazaar. We sat on its edge. "Now we have time to talk, little brother," he said to me. "The street of dreams is not a safe place, as you have discovered. There are many illusions and traps that lure you into giving up your life or even your soul." "But you went . .. ," I began, but he cut me short. "I went because it was my mission and because I knew where to go. I went to fetch a scroll and some elixir of illusion for a wizard and a flask of serpent toxin for myself. The wizard and I are bound for a dangerous journey and these things will help to protect us." His tone was sharp throughout his oration. I said nothing. Instead, I just stared at the ground. He softened a little. "I am sure that time will grow you into a good man," he said. "But not if you trespass the street of dreams again. Sooner or later, the street will see the death of any who pass there too often." There came after that a long pause. The sounds of the bazaar merged with the tinkling of the fountain. I knew that the warrior was deciding something during that silence that would affect my future. He seemed lost in himself as if struggling for an answer. Then came the clop of hooves on cobblestones. I looked up and saw two riders and three horses. One of the riders was aged but looked at me with young eyes. The second was older than I, but young. The extra horse was broad of chest. The saddle suggested a big man. "Your wizard friend, his apprentice, and your mount," I softly deduced aloud. "Did everything go as planned?" questioned the old man, ignoring me. "Not exactly," admitted the warrior. "but I did get the supplies that we needed." "And a new helper from the look of it." They all laughed. The warrior stood, stretched, stood and swung up into the saddle. He looked down at me seriously. "I do need a helper," he said. "Someone to groom my horse and fetch and carry." I didn't reply. I just stared dumbly at him. He leaned down and offered me a hand up. "Do you want to be a beggar all your life?" I shook my head emphatically, no, I didn’t. I grasped his hand and he swung me up behind him. He hefted me as if I weighed nothing. New clothes, newly apprenticed to a warrior, and off on some great mission. Not a bad days work for an orphan beggar barely surviving in a harsh city. We began to move through the afternoon throng forming at the outer edge of the bazaar. My journey onto the street of dreams had made a dream come true. Now, I was on my way to being somebody. We moved past the entrance to the street of dreams where just short hours ago my whole life was begging for survival. I gazed down its length as far as I could see, trying to penetrate its mysterious darkness one more time. I caught a glimpse of the pock- faced man I’d seen through the window of the serpent shop, the sole survivor of a robbery attempt gone brutally wrong. He was half in and half out of the shadows. Staring back at me, his eyes locked with mine as I rode by but he didn't frighten me any more. My fear was gone. In my heart I knew that I would return here, return to the street of dreams. I would explore all its possibilities and exploit them and make them mine, just as my new mentor had done. Until then though it would be enough just to grow and learn. My master would have many lessons to impart. There would be time enough for illusion in the future after I became a man.
(c) 2000 by Bob Liddil All Rights Reserved.
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