Notes - Music of Dreams

Archie slid off the slippery, lacquered, wooden
top of his stool and dropped lightly to the white-tiled floor on his
stocking-feet. His mother had too much on her mind to reprimand him
for not asking to be excused – the family was in a bad
financial fix. Her husband, Archie’s father, had lost his job
and therefore they were down to restricting themselves from movies,
restaurant food, or even toys for Archie and his little brother,
except every now and then.

The boy put his spoon and empty
bowl on the counter by the sink and then went across to the bathroom
and began brushing his teeth. Finishing that, he went into his
bedroom through the closet that he and his brother Justin called the
secret passageway.

Archie climbed the ladder to his
bunk bed and did a few minutes’ Bible reading. In this vein he
continued, till he had practiced playing his recorder, studied
catechism questions, and done his math, in about a half hour. After
math he worked on his other subjects: reading, Bible, history, and
science. His mother did grammar with him and he was done for the day
with school – Archie was home-schooled.

As that day began, it seemed as
normal as any others, just another drop in the ocean of time. But as
it progressed, Archie would find that it would change his life
forever – and come close to ending it.

Not knowing any of these things,
Archie had a chicken sandwich for lunch and went outside to play. And
so, we find him again, wielding a wooden sword against innumerable
imaginary foes.

“Back, back, ye foul fiends!
Keep back, afore I lop your ‘eads off! Hm, I don’t like
that accent. How’s this: Stand aside, ye scurvy dogs! Avast,
there’s blood to spill! Oh, what the heck. Outta my way,
dirtbags!”

With that, he hurled himself at
the crowd of enemy men-at-arms and swung his sword wildly about, till
he decided the enemy archers were firing and held a stick against his
breast as though piercing it, falling to the snowy ground with a cry.
Suddenly, he dropped the stick and sword, ignoring the imaginary
blows of his old enemies, and looking over at a small, leafless bush
against the wire fence that blocked his yard off from his neighbor’s
garden.

A little light was in the bush,
darting about lazily. The light itself was a bright golden, about as
big as Archie’s fist, but it seemed to fade whenever the thing,
whatever it was, slowed down. Archie rose cautiously, careful not to
step on any of the numerous sticks lying about. He thought at first
that it was a firefly, but soon realized by the size that it couldn’t
be, and so became all the more cautious.

Suddenly, the boy dived, hands
first, plunging into the buch and fumbling fiercely for the light,
which now was darting about even fiercer, trying to get out. By sheer
chance, his hand grasped the thing and he pulled his arms out of the
bush and sat up, tickled by the writhing thing in his fist.

Finally, he opened his hand,
cautiously at first. And this is what he saw: standing in his hand
was a boy about his age, but about as tall as Archie’s finger
was long. His hair, blond and tousled like Archie’s, had a
piece of snow in it from the scuffle.

“A slough of violet clouds was
streaked across the tawny sunrise: long, bubbly shapes, framed dark
by the young, eager light of dawn. The great sun triumphantly made
his climb up into the sky, growing ever clearer and more dazzling.
The beauty of the sight made the young shepherd boy lose his breath.
Pulling the coarse woolen cloak tighter around his slouched
shoulders, he rested his chin on his knees, which were covered by his
leggings, also fashioned of wool, but, unlike the cloak, un-dyed.

“Before the boy was
scattered about the source of his woolen clothing: a small flock of
sheep, contentedly grazing. His staff was leaning against the smooth
rock he sat on. His name was Delwyn.” No––that was
a Welsh name. His name must be something original, something that
came from the language of his land. But Delwyn did seem such a
perfect name for him, and it was the only one that fitted his
character in my mind.

A deeper voice answered this
objection, louder and somewhat harsher, but fluent and reasonably
happy. It belonged to a girl. It said: Delwyn is a fine name. Stick
with what seems best until the rest comes together, in this case.

The first voice agreed
reluctantly, continuing into the tune of the tale with a nod from the
girl.

“Delwyn”––what
next? The first voice paused embarrassedly. With a slightly amused
grin, the girl continued where the boy’s voice had left off:
“The flock was grazing in a green valley, surrounded by
forested hills. On the slope of the hill behind him stood a simple
building,”––the first voice, with an apologetic
glance at the girl, interrupted, trying to continue the flow, “its
walls crudely built of uncut stones, with a recently re-thatched
roof. A few men, robed in morbid grays and browns, walked about,
gardening, feeding chickens, and hanging out wet robes to dry.”

“I can’t ––
I don’t have the imagination to. I can’t do it anymore.
It can’t really be from me.”

“It’s not my world!
It’s ours! You can do it, too. I know you can; I’ve seen
it.”

“But that was before ––
before I turned seventeen. I don’t know how to anymore.”

“Yes, you can! It doesn’t
matter whether you’re seventeen…I know you can.”

“I could, I know ––
I could do it, but it wouldn’t really be me. It wouldn’t
be part of me. Not like Lilianna…”

“Then let Lilianna grow!
Build on her.”

“No. I can’t. You
don’t understand. I know I can’t. It wouldn’t be
real.”

“Real? It never was real.
Its just a make-believe, imaginary, fantasy world. But you still have
that –– that –– that ability, that youth,
that imagination…”

“No, Archie. I don’t
have it any more. I just don’t.”

“Then –– then
maybe He’ll give it to you. Just ask. Please, Gwen. Even if
just…for me.”

“Okay…I’ll
try…” The girl’s ruby lips moved silently along
with the voice in her heart, which cried out to Him. But after her
lips had ceased their movement and she paused for a moment, Gwen
sobbed again. “No. I don’t know what it is. He won’t
let me have it. It’s –– it’s something about
being mature. I’m not allowed to anymore, Archie. I’m
sorry. I can’t tap into it.”

Archie’s blue eyes fell.
“All right…I’m sorry I yelled at you…I
guess I’ll have to make it myself. Can I keep Lilianna?”

“Yes. And her unicorn. And
her sword. And –– and all of her that you know. And I
think she does love him –– what’s-his-face; Delwyn,
I mean.” Gwen’s eyes looked up and lit up just as
Archie’s had when he mentioned Lilianna. “Are you going
to keep his name? I like it.”

“No, I don’t think so.
I’m going to find something more German, or Saxon, or something
–– he’s not an Idrinthirian, after all.”

“But you could have it as
his Idrinthirian name,” suggested Gwen.

Smiling weakly, Archie nodded.
“Yeah…I guess. See ya. I gotta go. And I’m
sorry…for everything.”

“All right. Bye.”

Archie turned and left. They had
been talking just inside the doorway of a white, green-trimmed house
on a neighborhood street. A truck growled up the street and past
Archie as he made his way down the sidewalk to his own house.

The rest of the week, Archie was
depressed over Gwen’s inability. It had all started when
Archie’s family first moved there, five years before. It was
then that Archie took up the soprano recorder. Three months before,
when the two had gotten around their age gap (Archie was the younger
of the two by three and a half years) somewhat and could loosely be
considered friends, they had been practicing for a music recital,
when, on a spree of light-headed-ness at practicing with Gwen, Archie
had suddenly started verbally imagining the possibilities of creating
a fantasy world. Politely, Gwen had taken up the subject. But little
did they know what events would unravel: they found that they had the
ability to create a fantasy world in their imaginations with music ––
but this was no ordinary fantasy world. Once, they had gotten into
it, for a short time.

Now Archie spent the week in
sadness. He hid it when others were around, for they had kept their
fantasy world a secret, but now he knew he must tell someone. One day
his chance came.

Archie had convinced his mother to
let him ride to the library on his bike. He was a bookworm, due
partly, perhaps, to the fact that they did not have a TV. Dressed
reasonably in a pair of camouflage pants and a yellow T-shirt, Archie
had wandered through the library, looking up information on what he
considered his four groups of ancestry, based on the surname of each
of his grandparents: German, French, Irish, and Welsh. This affected
his fantasy world a great deal.

While Archie was sitting at a
table to read a book about Wales, he buried his hand in his pocket
and found that there was a crumpled-up piece of paper in it. He
spread it out on the table. It was a half-finished drawing he had
forgotten to throw away. Discovering that there was a pencil in his
pocket as well, Archie proceeded to write out some of the things he
was reading about. He wrote,

Welsh W is pronounced OO. Y is uh or
ih.

Thinking for a moment, he wrote more,
connecting the Welsh information with his fantasy world.

Welsh W, Y, C, FF, F, D, Irish DH are
Idrinthirian. Who united Francdains?…… …Dain, Thain,
Bain-Bain. Bain Goldenheart. Bain Goldenoak.

Then Archie stopped and rose from
his chair to take down an English-Welsh dictionary from the shelf of
encyclopedias and dictionaries.

Some people, like myself, find
that the easiest way to get to sleep is to just think, letting your
mind wander off to strange places. It is almost a dulling of the
mind, because you must not be trying to fall asleep. For whenever you
remember what you are trying to do, you wake up out of that delicious
half-awake-ness.

But really, that stage of falling
asleep is the most dangerous. Usually, sleep overcomes you if you can
keep it up long enough without remembering that you want to fall
asleep. But if sleep fails to overtake you in time, and you continue
to be half-asleep for along time, the fairies notice; and being the
mischief-makers they are, they weave their magic into your half-awake
dreams, and you go into the dreams for real. And that is just what
happened to a boy named Archie, one night.

Eleven years old, and wishing to
stay that way, Archie lived in New England. Under a twinkling host of
stars, his neighborhood lay. His house was not very nice, being an
apartment, but his family’s upper floor was neat and tidy. He
lay in bed, sleeping; it was ten o’ clock at night, after all.
His little head, crowned with a mop of carrot-colored hair, stuck out
from the mass of blankets.

Archie was just falling into the
half-asleep phase, his mind thinking of his own make-believe world.
He always made the finishing touches on these kinds of things in his
sleep, and this one was no exception. At this time, it was winter, so
naturally he was thinking about springtime, as well. This thought,
mixed with his imaginary world, created a lovely scene.

That evening, the last traces of a
crimson sunset glowed behind a gloomy setting, only to be blotted out
by a fresh snowfall. The Peters’ house was up for sale, and
they were moving. A petty affair it seemed – this was West
Springfield, Massachusetts. People were happy here. This was New
England; this was the United States. Nothing bad would happen; it was
just that Mr. Peters’ job required him to do a little
traveling. It was only to Arkansas. Nothing bad would happen. They
were not poor, at least.

But, oh, how it rent their hearts
to see their little green house (“second ugliest on the
street,” said Mrs. Peters) standing there so lonely and
frightened. The “For Sale” sign seemed like a cruel
sentence of death. The little family shivered in the cold. Strange
that snow was falling – white, fluffy powder – on this,
the first day of spring. But it had happened last year, too.

Vicious fate bound them to just
such coldness there in the North, but the promise of a warm spring in
Arkansas seemed hollow and dull. And so it was that the four of them,
Mr. Peters, Mrs. Peters, eleven-year-old Archie, and their youngest,
Justin; along with their little white dog Missy, climbed into the
warmth of their red Geo Prism and drove off through the falling snow
and off of Field Street forever.

Mr. Peters’ forehead began
furrowing and his lips were pursed in valiantly withheld grief. Mrs.
Peters sighed and held her face in her hands, but tears trickled down
her cheeks. Archie was making every effort to restrain buckets of
tears and sobs from gushing out of his very soul, but worriedly (and
perhaps because, in temporary, blissful ignorance, he did not
entirely understand what was going on), little Justin looked about
wide-eyed and frequently asked “Why are you crying, Mom?”
or more often, “What are we doing?” or most of all,
“Where are we…moving…to?”

The rest of the drive there got
sadder and gloomier, till finally, a jolt of the car silenced all
outer grief as they stopped at the airport. The four got out and Mr.
Peters put Missy in her traveling crate. Archie was too sad to pay
attention to any of his parents’ brief conversation with the
airline agents at the ticket counter, not that there was anything
important to him. For all he cared, he was dead. Never again would he
see his friends, the ones at church, or the ones on the street –
Jack, Martin, Timmy, Jonathan, or Alex. Never, ever, would he see
Chloe – but oh, Chloe. She? His friend? Yes, his friend, but he
not hers. Politely elusive Chloe, who dispatched all of his attempted
conversation with her elegant grace for which he sought her: how
belittled he felt, and bitterly condescending she seemed almost to
him.

Minute failures in social life he
could handle, but this transfer to Arkansas would be a cruel blow –
death to all joy. But no, how could he think that? He was still a
servant of God, and his Lord’s grace would be sufficient for
him. Yes, Chloe was gone, no more to return into his life, and if a
fleeting glimpse of her somehow caught his eye while he lived on
earth he would be stricken, die, and go to Heaven. That was enough
for him. If no joy in anyone but his Lord, and then eternal joy with
Him in heaven were for Archie, then amen; so be it.

But oh, the years of suffering in
the South, away from home and happiness. He would be an outcast, a
shrouded, pitiful corpse of a boy, and then a skulking teen, and then
a weary old man. No joy in the South, where he had been raised till
he was seven years old. No joy in the South, where people were
friendly and cheerful. Archie could not face the fact that he didn’t
remember how to be nice in a Texan way. Massachusetts had hardened
him, toughened his skin, and embittered him against friendliness. He
felt like a bloodsucking heathen parasite, being ripped off of his
new homeland, breaking the social shell and returning to his family’s
old life; practically that of a nomad’s.

By now they were sitting in their
seats aboard their plane. At least here was some joy before they
moved to Arkansas – Archie like flying in planes very much. If
only Martin were on board; Martin wanted to be a pilot when he grew
up. Or if only Timmy were aboard; he was so fun to talk to – or
Jack, his good friend; Jack, with whom he shared so many secrets. But
now the brightness of the formations of lights below seemed dim, the
darkness seemed foreboding, and the snow seemed a merciful veil to
blot out his vision of all that he loved. Alas! Sadness, gloom, and
despair hung over all, real sadness, not casual disappointment at not
getting one’s way.

The pale northern sun hung over the
snowy plains like a cap plugging up the coming flood of darkness. It
was near six by the clock, but the band of horsemen riding south
towards the Twin Mountains had no clock but the sun. At the leader’s
side rode one who was shorter than the rest. He wore a garb of white
fur, belted at the waist by a sword belt fashioned of links of gold,
set luxuriously with rubies. The scabbards that held his two blades
were of like material, as were his weapons’ hilts. His face,
old, kind, and grizzled, was margined by strands of long, graying
hair, once jet black, though his pate was bald and glistening. A
narrow beard, too, hung to the base of his thick neck.

The other riders were also
cloaked, and each armed with the traditional armament of Westfolkish
warriors: a bastard sword, short sword, and dagger. But these others’
blades were forged of common steel, and the riders themselves seemed
grimmer, and less hearty. The leader, too, was grim and cold-faced,
but in his bearing was nobility and authority, and his gray eyes
radiated an inner strength and endurance. He alone, besides the
dwarf, was bareheaded, his brown locks curling down his earlobes.
Clothed in a tunic of forest green on the stomach and chest and earth
brown on the sides and hem, he also wore a darker brown cloak that
was pinned at his right shoulder, thus concealing his swords when not
in use and allowing his sword-arm freedom of movement.

As for the other riders, it was
obvious they were not only capable of fighting, but were also trained
soldiers. Their heads were covered either by hoods of chain mail or
by steel, conical helmets, with plain nose-guards running down the
middle. All, including the leader and dwarf, bore round, iron
shields, unmarked by any coat-of-arms, either on their arms or slung
across their backs.

The band continued along, watching
the sun begin to set in the West, to their right. Then their leader
spoke, addressing the dwarf, but loudly enough so that all could
hear, “Shall we make camp here or press on to Kerethor,
Hrothgar: what is thy advice?”

The dwarf Hrothgar rubbed his
grizzle upper lip with a thick pointer finger, and looked west to the
sun, then to the two mountains in the South, the westernmost of which
was Kerethor. He spoke gruffly through his beard, “If you would
ask my advice, your Majesty, I would say that we should make camp
here. The Thane of Scarlvale, curse his name, will not know yet of
our presence in Westland; and, secondly, if we press on towards the
mountains, we will have not the strength either to climb them or to
defend ourselves from whatever griffins or dragons have come to
Westland since your Majesty was forced to flee from her.” What
Hrothgar meant by “her” was Westland itself, for though
he was a dwarf, and not a Westfolkman, he loved the country dearly.

“That is wise advice,
Hrothgar; we make camp here,” commanded the leader, and the
horsemen all began dismounting and unsaddling their horses. Unable to
clear a bare spot in the hard snow, they lay their cloaks down on the
snow and huddled together for warmth on the ground. Hrothgar
volunteered to take the first watch, and soon all but he were asleep,
gaining their much-needed rest for the journey and climb ahead. The
dwarf kept an eye on the horses, looking frequently about at the
plains. As night crept on, he unbuckled his golden sword belt and lay
it, with his sword and dagger buckled on, on the ground beside him.

At dawn, the band, light sleepers
all, awoke to a beautiful sunrise. Golds and purples tinged the
horizon, through which the sun, a fiery orb, plowed, leaving no trail
but rising steadily. Orange and red tinged the icy snowdrifts,
casting a strange light in the riders’ eyes. Unexpectedly,
Hrothgar called out to the others from his still sitting position,
“Cover your eyes – snow blindness is not uncommon,
whether among Westfolk or dwarves it matters not.”

Heeding the counsel of the dwarf,
who was at least ten years elder than any of them, the riders looked
at their horses as they saddled them, and when they were mounted,
kept their eyes on the backs of their mounts’ heads. Every few
minutes, Hrothgar would look up, his eyes squinty, to make sure they
were headed in the right direction.

The cold was against the riders,
ice fringing their tunics and cloaks from the night before. But their
leader steeled his eyes and urged his black stallion on, intent on
his destination.

Elsewhere, the same sun was rising
over Scarlvale. The red, sandstone castle stood wearily on the slopes
of a vale, in which was Scarlvale Village. Winter had not yet come
upon Westland; autumn’s brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows
decorated the woods surrounding the vale. Scarlvale was far south of
Kerethor, on the edge of a cove, only miles away from the Nastartan
Sea to the west. The sea stretched all along the western border of
Westland, and across it was the land of the Andwlyn, or, in the
Common Tongue spoken by the Westfolk, the elves.

In a hut practically identical to
every other in Scarlvale, a round affair with stone walls and a
thatched roof, a young lady went about her morning chores. At the
moment she was sweeping. Her mother had gone to market, and her
father was out at work in their meager fields. The girl’s only
sibling, her sister, was baking bread at the other end of the hut.

The broom brushed back and forth
slowly, as her svelte form paused in its bustling movements. Her
hair, long and beautifully dark brown, hung down below her
shoulder-blades, unadorned and loose. Her name was Anthe, and her
fair face was set with beautiful green eyes beneath arching eyebrows.
Her lips were like a scarlet ribbon across her face.

Finally, the swaying of the broom
ceased and she stopped all movement, hands clutching the broom handle
as she gazed out the window into space.

In a field several huts away, a
boy two years younger than her was working, gathering the last
harvest crops. Running a hand through his brown, dirty hair, he, too,
paused in his work, leaning the concave curve of his sickle against
his shoulder. His gray-blue eyes gazed across the fields, towards
Anthe’s hut. He wished fervently that she, too, was looking
across the fields, thinking of him…but then he snorted and
went back to his work; what chance had he…?

But then, his ears were caught by
a faint patter of hooves on the road leading through the village, to
the castle gates, and northeast, until it came to a fork, one path of
which went east to the Hills of Exile and the other south to the
Southern Endryl River. Riding down the slope of the vale, past the
castle, rode a lone horseman.

A wispy, white beard hung to his
waist, at which were a curiously designed bastard sword and dagger.
But other than these armaments, he bore nothing in the appearance of
a warrior; his traveling robe was of green hunting leather, with a
long hood that was up over his otherwise bald head. His name, as
shall be seen, was Logairh, and he was a White Enchanter from the
North. Complementing his odd apparel, the enchanter’s gray eyes
were twinkling, as if holding in a secret joke, yet at the same
moment wise and grim.

His mare looked as if she had
endured much, but bore on, contented with her master. Against her
sweaty gray flanks bounced Logairh’s leather saddlebags, light
except for a heavy, flat, rectangular object on the left side.

The enchanter urged his horse on,
looking grimly over Scarlvale Village.

Arelas, the boy in the field,
called to his father, who was just bringing a load of firewood in.
“Father! There’s a rider on the road!”

Stopping and turning, Arelas’
father grunted musingly to himself and called back, “Halloo
him, Arelas; it has been long since we entertained company!”

Arelas nodded, though his father
could probably not see this, and called out in a louder yell to the
horseman, who had reached the foot of the slope, the boy waving his
arms as he yelled, “Halloo, traveler!” There was not much
else he could say, until the horseman came closer.

Logairh, neither in a hurry nor
taking his merry time, rode along the path, raising his left hand in
answer. When in hailing distance, he answered in a strong voice, “I
seek lodgings!”

Arelas looked to his father, but
he was already inside. “Come, traveler. We have good lodgings
here!”

The enchanter sped forward,
slowing his mare at the hut. Arelas quickly led his mount to the back
of the hut, where a shed held their milking cow and chickens. Most of
the chickens, of course, wandered free around the hut. Tying the
reins to a railing, Arelas led Logairh inside.

Arelas’ father, having piled
up the firewood, welcomed Logairh heartily, “Greetings,
traveler, and a very good morning to you.”

Logairh grinned and bowed, the
common greeting in Westland.