Written by Etienne Domingue
I will not tell you what it was I did Before, but will only assure you, insofar as such assurance is needed, that it was not a life of obvious discontentment. I had no sordid vice, no great misfortune – neither indigence nor sickness, least of all any unrequited love – that I might have sought escape from in nepenthe. My education had been neither too liberal nor too practical, and therefore I had no cause, whether from want or excess of fancy, to seek sustenance or solace in dreams.Thus my transition began not tragically or precipitously, as is the case with the wretched wraiths you have undoubtedly encountered in nightmares, but gradually, over the course of years. The regular business of living irritated me in a way as to make sleep hard to find: I had taken to imbibing a bitter concoction which a reputable apothecary made for me from the essences of agrimony and poppy. The soporific provided such release from my worries that I was soon addicted, not for the benefits to my waking life, but for the clarity it afforded to my sleeping mind. The fog of the Valleys of Mist was lifted: their ancient, empty streets made such an impression upon my memory that I was able, over the course of many nights, to explore every part of Olam ha Tiqvah1 accessible to the nocturnal visitor. Had I a more prosaic disposition, I would have been content with this increased breadth of experience; more poetically minded, I might have craved new sights so as to overdose and drift into the dark, deep dream of Death without the lore to keep the soul from aimless wandering. Instead I was only inquisitive enough to seek a glimpse of certain private places: of the halls where young gods dwell, the capitals of evening’s empire, the gardens of respite where the souls of the Dead wait to be called back to the living realms.
There were not many in Olam ha Tiqvah who could tell me how to open the gates of the gods. The legions of the Phantasms are mute save for their generals; the latter are not amicably disposed and the former delight in confusion. (It is they whom you encounter most frequently in your sleep, taking the guise of all manner of things inanimate or animate.) From other dreamers I could learn but little. Olam ha Tiqvah is so vast that one seldom encounters another living soul; moreover, sojourners can rarely keep their wits about them without the help of some elixir. As for the Dead – who sleep soundly, and therefore have more of a mind with which to discuss – they all abide in the gilded halls to which I was denied access; all, that is, save the suicides, who are condemned to roam until they have forgotten their sorrows. Ghosts such as these give no help.
In my wandering I acquired new senses. My mind grappled with things it never could before; my sight did not merely dart from object to object, but also wrapped around them so that a glance could follow the moonbeam up to its source. My range of hearing expanded to include the vague tinkling of cogitation. Such powers did not vanish with the coming of dawn and I was continually shocked by the vile stray thoughts of acquaintances.
In the night I continued my explorations. I was fortunate enough, having spied on one occasion a concourse of nymphs, to hear rumours of a rare and dangerous Bough with which I might pass the borders into the regions of the Dead. I offered myself on the altar of Sleep as wholly and as frequently as possible, doing as little work as I could get away with, and neglecting all other pursuits of waking life in favour of the quest for the Bough. I sought my prize in high and low places. On the beaches of the Ocean of Oblivion I met a wailing ghost, or rather more of a wail than a ghost: a shade so pressed down by nameless sorrow that she was stranded in the silver sand, screaming out of reach of the waters that would save her. With my newfound talents I took the scream from her – I listened it out her throat, out of her pale gaunt frame. Freed from her burden of grief, she plunged into the still, black sea at the edge of Olam ha Tiqvah. In like manner I have rescued many souls, and so the sleeping and the Dead have sometimes called me Racham, which means Mercy, and is one of the names that most pleases me.
Atop the bleak Peaks of Sekel an errant glass giant confided the Bough is called the Finger of Bahalath, which is to say that it was named after the dead god who created the Phantasms before the cosmos was put to order. The ancient giant – Mutu was his name – did not willingly give away lore, and would only let the wind whistle through his lips (for this is the only way for such creatures to speak) so as to sing in a trite and irritating fashion while shaking a rusted tambourine. I knew from having travelled widely that the giants possess all manners of secrets. Wishing to learn more concerning the Bough, I threatened Mutu with the strident scream of the shade by the ocean; when he came near to breaking on account of the sound, the giant pleaded for mercy and answered my questions.
It would be unfair and inaccurate to pretend that I found the Bough – for one might just as easily say that it found me. Bahalath’s Finger is aptly named: the tree on which it grows is the black hand of the dead god, still possessed of some primordial power. On the barren barrows of Midnight it beckoned to me; fearing that I might wake at any moment from the excitement, I answered its summons without regard for my safety. I cannot tell you how it is that Bahalath’s hand spoke, nor the exact terms of the compact into which I entered then. I suppose such things are too horrible for the minds of most sleepers to conceive. Needless to say, I had to offer a sacrifice in exchange for the flesh of the god, and the stipulations made it certain that my soul would never again inhabit my mortal body.
Grim prophets now deplore that dead Bahalath, wearing my skin, clandestinely roves the living world, spreading blasphemous lore. As for myself, I have parted the waters of the moats of the palaces of the High Ones – I have penetrated their barriers of blue flame – using only the finger of the god. No place in Olam ha Tiqvah is barred to me, the most powerful of the Dream Lords. Though I only come to observe, every soul fears me, like an evil omen. I have escaped Hazavel and Hagiael.2 I am free and contented: even the greatest marvels of the impermanent world pale in comparison to the commonplace occurrences of the Dream from which I shall never wake.
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