The Dreaming Demon Read online

  The Dreaming Demon

  By Alex Avrio

  Kindle Edition

  www.Alexavrio.com

  @Alexavrio

  Facebook.com/alexavrio

  Copyright 2014 by Alex Avrio

  Chapter 1 - Arthur

  Chapter 2 - Albert

  Chapter 3 - Lady Athelton

  Chapter 4 - Ferdinand de Castile

  Chapter 5 - The Inquisition

  Chapter 6 - The Expedition

  Chapter 7 - The Guardians

  Chapter 8 - The City

  Chapter 9 - The Mother of Serpents

  Chapter 10 - Alone

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Arthur

  I have been looking for a good story to tell for a long time. I spend long hours in front of a blank screen trying to find the right sequence of words. I inevitably fail. The only things that come easy are the long sleepless nights and the muddled hostile dreams, half forgotten by day, but enough to wake with a startle at night, short of breath and terrified.

  My story does not spring forth from the depths of my own imagination, but from the memories of an old man. I am simply responsible for transcribing the words he has entrusted me with. I have only changed those which have retired from our vocabulary.

  Read the story and make up your own mind about the possibility of such things. Are they merely the ramblings of old men, tangled up by the modifications of memory, the passing of time, the urge of redemption and the delirium of a mind at the threshold of death?

  Let us call the old man Arthur. He would be mortified if I gave his own name, being of a generation which abhors publicity, and wishes nothing more than a simple quiet life. A man like that would flinch uncomfortably even when his own banns would be read, but would keep a stiff upper lip, seeing it as a necessary evil.

  #

  Arthur was a relative of sorts. He was a dear old man and I visited him in his rest home as often as I could. Both he and I appreciated the company. I kept him amused with stories from my dreary life and the even drearier day job. He would tell me about the other residents of the home, half complaining, half entertained by their little ways. This would be our usual banter, until the day he asked me about the black circles under my eyes. Arthur already knew of my terrible sleeping patterns, waking up in the middle of the night, unable to go back to sleep. Afraid of the nameless thing I had forgotten upon waking.

  When I explained once again that I could not sleep he scoffed at me. He took out a handkerchief and coughed in it for so long that I thought that he might swallow his dentures.

  “If you are going to spend long nights afraid of your own shadow,” he said when the cough was finally over, “let it at least be for a reason. I have never told this to anyone before and never will again. If you say that I did, I will deny it. I am old enough for them to think I have finally lost my mind, and it’s best they think that. For all I know they still are out there, and from the state the world is in they most probably are.”

  My ears pricked at this and I gave Arthur the most profound promises of secrecy. He made a puffing noise. Was it in agreement or did he mock my intentions in the knowledge that I would not keep the secret? You be the judge of that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Albert

  WHEN I was a young boy, Arthur began, Hitler got it in his mind that he wanted to flatten London with his aeroplanes and his bombs, so all the children were sent away to the country where they would be safe. My mother packed my little suitcase, told me that daddy was fighting and she was working at the factory, and I too had to do my bit by going away. She said that I was a big boy now and that I shouldn’t cry. But she was crying. She would write to me often. She took me to the railway station where I was miserable but in good company of other miserable children crying for their mummies, bundled up warm, carrying their little cases, neatly tagged with a big buff label with their details around their necks.

  I ended up deep in the English countryside, in a manor house that time hadn’t dignified by forgetting, but had simply passed by. As far as I knew I was the only child there. There was a nice young maid called Agnes, with shining blue eyes and dimples when she smiled. She gave me slices of thick homemade bread covered with fresh butter, luxuries we had forgotten in London. Agnes was always kind with me, bless her soul, during all the time I stayed there. Mrs Applethorn the housekeeper was another matter. She was never unkind to me, or ever laid a finger on me for that matter. She didn’t have to. She had all the authority of a Mother Superior; the wizened face like an old prune as well, without wearing the habit. She walked the long dusty corridors with soundless steps, like a ghost. She said I should too. The old gentleman who owned the house was ill. He could not abide noise or mischief. He slept during the day because he could not sleep at night. Mrs Applethorn set down the rules and I always followed them. There were rooms I was forbidden to enter. I was not to run or shout in the corridors or anywhere in the house. I had to follow a strict schedule of meals, work, studying and prayers. Mrs Applethorn was very particular about prayers. She said I needed to keep my soul safe.

  So I tried to be good, as Mrs Applethorn ordered. I spent all day exploring the great garden, crossing fields to nearby farms, and playing with animals the like of which I’d never seen before in the city. I tried to study but books didn’t hold the same interest as the great outdoors. But as much as I ran around and fell to bed exhausted, I didn’t fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I lay awake at night afraid of the noises I could hear.

  “Nonsense, child,” Agnes would say the next morning, putting in front of me a mug of warm milk and a big plate of fried eggs and bacon. “Those are just the noises of the house and the countryside.”

  But I knew better. I could hear the clanking from the corridors and knew that the old man was walking around the house in the hours of darkness. I could hear other things as well; whispers of the dark and the thumping, the beating heart of darkness, drums from the depths of a primal jungle. Each night they came and whispered of things, some terrible, some wonderful, some beyond my comprehension.

  On such a night when I had resigned myself of any sleep, with the winter rain whipping the window, obeying a faraway summons, I tossed away my blankets, put my dressing gown and slippers on, and ventured into the corridor. I went down the stairs and wandered for a while, when I noticed that light was coming from the old man’s study. It was a soft glow, like the coals in a waning fire, and despite being one of the forbidden rooms I decided I ought to investigate. It wouldn’t do if we were burnt to death and it was my fault. I walked to the door gingerly, and softly pushed it open. The fireplace was indeed lit and an unearthly glow fell on the room, illuminating some corners and casting others into darkness. I walked in, looking in awe at the rows of books lining the walls right up to the ceiling. I wondered if anyone had ever read all of them. I was soon distracted by another shelf which made my jaw hang. Bottles of all shapes and sizes containing things floating in clear liquids, some vaguely recognizable, others pickled nightmares.

  “You must be young master Arthur.” I nearly jumped out of my skin before I found the owner of the voice. It belonged to the old man who owned the mansion. I had known that he was old but I could never have imagined that people could live to be that old. He may or may not have been tall and handsome once, but now all excess flesh had melted away, leaving him lean and angular. The angles in his face were highlighted sharply by the few remaining strands of white hair on his freckled skull. He smiled not unkindly, and I was surprised to see a full set of teeth, or a good pair of dentures. His eyes reflected the light of the fire.

  “You can hear them too.” It was a statement not a question. I nodded. He motioned for me to sit down
on the armchair opposite him. I did so without a word. He took his time relighting his pipe. Then he took a good hard look at me. It was as if he was weighing me up. After what seemed a long time, and a few good puffs of his pipe, he leaned a little towards me.

  “As you might have guessed, I am Sir Albert, the owner of this house.” I nodded. He gave me another smile. “In my time I was also a well-known scientist.”

  “What kind of scientist?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Back then,” he said, “more sciences were rolled into one than now. You could be a natural scientist, a biologist, a geographer, a map maker and an explorer all at once.” My eyes glowed with excitement “Did you go on an expedition?” I asked, forgetting that polite children do not ask questions.

  “There were many white places on maps when I was young,” he said. “I went on many expeditions.” He pointed to a shelf filled with heavy black volumes. “I expect little boys want to play and explore for themselves, unless they have to stay in, so you may read about them when it’s too cold to go out.” He must have seen the look of disappointment in my eyes. Reading didn’t come easy to me and large black books had the tendency to make even the most exciting things boring. “But,” he said in a low voice, “there is an expedition I have never told anybody about. I believe that you might be interested. Would you like me to tell you about it?”

  “Yes sir, please.” I immediately forgot about going to sleep and such trivial matters. “But I have to warn you that this story comes with a price. Once it is said it can never be unsaid. Once it is heard it can never be unheard. The things in the night will know about you and you will know about them. Do you understand, boy?”

  I gulped and nodded.

  “Very well then, let us begin.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lady Athelton

  “I was a young man when our story begins. I didn’t think so at the time. I believed I was at a respectable age having left youth’s follies behind me, but I tell you after all this time, I was still young with my greatest folly still ahead of me. I had already been on several expeditions and, while I wasn’t at the very top of my profession, I was quite respectably in the highest quarter. The day it all began I was giving a lecture in the Royal Academy of Science. It is strange that I remember that the sun was shining but it was a cold day. The sky was a brilliant blue and I paused for a moment before entering the building, as such days were, and still are, rare. I can still see the faces of the men that were there, the old professors, long since turned to dust, who could cast terror in a man’s heart by raising an eyebrow. It is a curious thing, memory, don’t you agree?

  But the most curious thing of all was that among the audience was a woman. A beautiful young woman. I didn’t know who she was but she was listening with great attention, observing my every move, my every word, like a great tigress stalking her prey. The next day I received an invitation to tea from Lady Athelton. When I went to visit at the appointed day and time, I discovered that the young lady who had attended the lecture was her. She had married quite young, and the age difference with the late Lord Athelton was considerable, even by the standards of the time. Lord Athelton had been a great patron of the arts and of science, with a great fortune at his disposal to donate at his pleasure.

  There had been whispers that Lord Athelton had dabbled in things that a Christian man, indeed men fearing any god, would best leave alone. Amidst the plethora of secret societies and clubs, most of which were really thinly veiled lairs of hedonism and sensual pleasures, there existed a rare few which truly looked into the hidden nature of things. Since Darwin had come forward with his theory of man descending from the apes, men had started to question things, to turn away from the gospels of religion, and turn to the seeking of science. There were, though, men and women seeking and questioning through the ages. Very few had found answers, and those answers were kept hidden, as even the questions were enough to drive people to madness.

  But enough rambling. I met the lady in her sitting room and, as we had tea, exchanged the usual pleasantries that were expected. I was not entirely sure why I was there but I supposed that the lady was an admirer of my scientific work. I was partially right.

  After the expected banter was exhausted, Lady Athelton sat in silence. She looked at me as if measuring me up for a great task. At last she decided to speak.

  “I have invited you here, sir, because I greatly admire your scientific progress and your discoveries. Yours is a very distinguished career and what is more important is that it is still in its beginnings. Your best discoveries still lie ahead of you.”

  I nodded politely but did not yet comprehend that there was a purpose behind her admirations, or that she was so confident about my greatest discoveries yet to come because she would play a part in them.

  “There is something I wish to discuss with a distinguished scientist such as yourself,” she said, “but before I begin you must give me your word as a gentleman that whatever we discuss shall remain in this room. Even if you decide not to act on the things we shall discuss, you will not ever breathe a word to a living soul.” I gave her my word as a gentleman. I was quite intrigued by this introduction but also feared that the whole matter may simply be the exaggerated fantasies of a woman with too much time on her hands.

  She smiled at me. Even though she was quite the English rose there was something faintly exotic about her. What it was I couldn’t put my finger on.

  “My late husband,” she began, “was quite a collector of books. He loved reading and learning. We have a substantial library full of first editions and very rare books on many, many subjects. Literature, philosophy, sciences. But as he grew older he developed an interest in other kinds of things, let us say of a more esoteric and erm, mystical nature.” She smiled at me. I was wondering where this was going but I liked listening to the sound of her voice. It was not often that we men of science had the opportunity to spend time in the company of such a delightful lady. My young man, you must remember that things were so very different then than they are now. We may have had a Queen governing the Empire, but in general women were thought of as beautiful little ornaments, possessions of a man, a father or a husband, much as a dog and with little more reasoning either. It was quite natural that the lady would not understand the most challenging books and may seek assistance from a learned man.

  “Please forgive my talkative ways, but I must give you an introduction first,” she continued. “Lord Athelton was a man of great inquisitiveness. He sought to learn about the hidden nature of things. He sought and found books which were thought to have been lost or were forbidden in many religions and places of the world. How he found them or what price he paid for them I could not tell you, but among his possessions I have found a book that may be of great interest to a scientist. You see, sir, we live in an age never before witnessed in the history of man. Science is taking its rightful place in the minds of learned people. The mists of ignorance are being dissolved, but we are also discovering the past. Look in the Natural History Museum and you will find evidence of the existence of the Lizard Kings that ruled the world before man. In the British museum treasures of rediscovered ancient civilizations are on display. Ancient Egypt. The Mayans. Palenque has emerged from the jungle where it has been so peacefully sleeping.”

  I was listening, enchanted. I felt, however, obliged to express that I did not understand how I could help. She got up and beckoned me to follow as she led me to the library. There are few things that would surprise me as libraries go, but in this instance my jaw dropped open. The library was a vast room filled with bookcases from the floor to the ceiling. Every book was as rare as it was priceless. A huge bookcase in the furthest corner had a wooden panel with a golden lock ensuring the contents remained hidden.

  Lady Athelton walked to a large oak desk. She reached to her neck and pulled a long gold chain revealing a key hiding under her garment. She took off the chain and used the key to open a draw in that desk.

  “
Do you like adventures, sir?” she asked with a smile.

  “It depends what kind of adventures, madam,” I replied.

  “The kind that will lead you to other worlds.”

  She tilted her head slightly like a bird.

  “In 1492, America was discovered by Columbus seeking the road to the East Indies. Wondrous peoples inhabited those lands, heathen and covered in gold. The conquistadors rushed to save their souls and their gold. A mere handful of men in a few years wiped out splendid empires. Their cities were lost. Some of the natives went into hiding. The conquistadors went after them seeking the lost city of gold, the spring of eternal youth, the fountain of knowledge. But none ever found it. Until now.”

  With great care she took out an ancient notebook of cracked black leather from the drawer. It seemed to me at that moment the room became darker, and a wave of nausea overcame me briefly. I drew a deep breath and leaned forward to have a better look.

  “The Spaniards proceeded in Christianizing the natives. A multitude of priests and monks descended on the land. Among them was the infamous Diego de Landa. But the man who interests us is a monk named Ferdinand de Castile.”

  The name was vaguely familiar to me. I could not exactly place it. It was not one of the personalities of the age, but among those who have fallen through the cracks of history.

  “Ferdinand de Castile arrived in the New World with the love of God in his heart and a will to spread this love to the natives. He was that rare priest that consorted with the natives and learned their habits and language while others were abusing them cruelly. The elders of the native people grew to trust him and showed him things that were never seen by any white man before or since. Among these they revealed to him the location of a city. A city built in time immemorial, a city in which even the streets were paved with gold.” She paused and looked at me. I was hanging on her every word.