Archer had gone down to the basement just to be among those wells that night. He didn’t understand death. He didn’t understand how a live person could be there one day and gone the next. He didn’t understand any of the psychological pain of such a loss. All he knew then was to be near the wells made him feel near to his mom. He’d only been down there for a few minutes when he heard heavy footsteps on the basement stair.
The door to the work side creaked open, and Archer’s father stood there. He’d worn a mask, expressions ranging from slack-jawed anguish to eyebrow-bunching fury to unblinking, fixed-eye, faraway numbness. “Archer, go on upstairs,” was all he’d said.
Archer backed away from the wells and edged out of his father’s way. The man had never been considered a big man, but he seemed somehow swollen. Fists bunched, forearms bulging, he strode toward the wells and, without looking back at Archer, exploded.
CRACK! With both hands joined in a single giant fist, he came down on the roof of a well, and the support beams snapped. The second blow crushed it with a series of sharp snaps and crackles that sent Archer reeling onto his backside.
”No, Dad,” he whimpered.
But Archer’s father went at the next well with a violent, clumsy backhand, knocking it onto the ground. He lifted a foot and stomped on the well as if it was the most wretched, hated thing he’d ever seen. CRACK!
One by one, he obliterated the loving works of his own hands. And Archer watched it all. His eyes blurred with tears, he’d muttered, “Why, Dad, why?”
His father had said nothing, but left the work in ruins. In the years that had passed since, Archer had looked in on the room a few times. The wreckage of all the wells was still there. His father never even cleaned up.
Archer blinked. No, as curious as he was about his father spending so much time downstairs, Archer wasn’t about to go down there now. The sounds of grief and viciously cracking wood haunted the basement. Archer didn’t have the heart to face them.
NINE
ICE-FIRE
IT WAS NOON BEFORE ARCHER FINALLY MADE IT BACK TO his room.
When he shut the door and turned, Master Gabriel was there.
“Snot buckets!” Archer exclaimed. “Don’t sneak up on a guy like that.”
“It’s time,” he said.
“Time?”
Master Gabriel glared. “Nick Bushman is waiting.”
Archer blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Oh! The new Dreamtreader? But it’s noon. Kind of early for sleep.”
“Not in Australia. It’s three o’clock in the morning there. Nick is in his deepest sleep. It’ll be best for him—and you—to meet him now.”
Archer went to his closet, opened his lock box, and retrieved the parchment Master Gabriel had given him. The wax seal was split. “I can read it now,” he said.
“Of course you can read it now. I told you it would open when it was time. Remember, read it before you enter the Dream. Study it while it remains. Do exactly as it prescribes.”
“What if he doesn’t believe me?” Archer asked. “What if he doesn’t want to be a Dreamtreader?”
Master Gabriel took a deep breath. His Incandescent Armor flared to life. “Show him, Archer. Open his eyes. Trust me on this: Nick Bushman will want to be a Dreamtreader.”
“Okay,” Archer replied. “I’ll do my best.”
“That is all I could ever ask.”
“What should I teach him first?” Archer asked. “Anchoring? Dream Lore? Weaving?”
“Anchor first,” Gabriel said.
“Anchor deep,” Archer replied, finishing the most important Dreamtreaders’ law.
“Be swift about it. You will not have the luxury of time. There are breaches that need your attention. Use Bezeal’s patch if you must, but get them locked down fast.”
Archer unrolled the parchment. “This is it?” he muttered, staring down. “Just a handful of lines?”
He looked over his shoulder, but Master Gabriel had disappeared. That’s when the parchment began to tear. No, not tear, but rather disintegrate. Even as Archer watched, bits and pieces of the scroll broke off and fell away. “No, no!” he gasped. He hadn’t read it yet. He locked his eyes down on the text and tried to take it all in, but the bottom line disappeared in flurry of dust.
In the Silentwood just south of Garnet,
Seek the Hunter’s Stone.
Beware the law of tooth and claw
And the dell where shadows roam.
When the winding path delivers,
You must climb the ever-swaying tree.
Above the clouds . . .
“No, no, no!” Archer growled. But it was done. What was left of the parchment turned to dust in his hands. He grabbed up his phone and tip-tapped what he had seen—what he could remember anyway—into a notepad app.
He’d done reasonably well, he thought. The first few lines were right, he thought. But the last line was just a few words: Above the clouds . . . what? Archer had no idea.
Why didn’t I pay more attention? Then Archer gave himself a facepalm. Why didn’t I take a picture of the scroll with my cell phone camera?
He shook his head. One facepalm didn’t cover it. Not even close. Archer knew he could probably just summon Master Gabriel, and he would finish the text. But, of course, that would mean admitting—yet again—that he’d blown it.
“Maybe I should ask Bezeal,” Archer grumbled to himself. “He’s good at rhymes.” But Archer knew involving Bezeal in the awakening of a new Dreamtreader would be worthy of far worse than a pile of facepalms.
As far as Archer was concerned, there was really only one thing to do: go to sleep.
Turbulent crimson vapors rotated around Archer. He couldn’t help but think it funny that L. Frank Baum had been so close to right when he wrote The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. After all, a tornado had taken Dorothy to a land of wonder.
Once the Dreamtreader fell into the deepest possible sleep, a vortex erupted, churning the Dream fabric until breaking through and forming a funnel cloud. It was a personal Dreamtreader slide, and Archer always enjoyed the ride. “Booyah!” he cried out, careening recklessly in the swirling wind.
On the ground, Archer stepped out of the vortex and took a deep breath of Dream air. He imagined it smelled like raspberries. So it did. He had hit the ground in a bare stone canyon, but now it had clumps of full raspberry bushes. He thought his companion would appreciate the humor.
He called for his surfboard and his little Dream helper. “Razz!”
“Here I am!” came a squeak from thin air. A double puff of purple smoke later, and Razz was there. She perched on Archer’s shoulder and looked around. “Raspberry bushes, Archer, really?”
Archer shrugged.
Razz frowned for a few moments but then started giggling. She descended into full body-shaking belly laughs and held her sides. “Okay, okay,” she said. “It was a little funny. Now, let’s get this party started!”
Archer found a good Intrusion wave, kicked his board over, and hopped on. Speeding southeast, carving down the steep wave, Archer said, “It’s no party tonight, Razz. We’ve got to quick-patch tonight. We still have enough of Bezeal’s paste?” It was a viscous translucent substance with the consistency of toothpaste, but it could temporarily mend small breaches in a hurry.
“Tons,” Razz replied. “But why such a rush? Don’t tell me . . . you aren’t doing something stupid again, are you?”
“Hey!”
“A blood pact with Bezeal, taking on the Lurker by yourself, a duel with the Nightmare Lord . . .” Razz fluffed her tail. “I could go on.”
“Don’t. Point taken.” Archer swerved the board around a craggy peak and picked up speed on the downslope. “No, tonight we are welcoming a new Dreamtreader.”
“Really?” Razz leaped in the air and somersaulted so that her twin tails clapped together. “A girl? A girl this time, right?”
“Uhm . . . no.”
“Dagnabbit!” Razz grumbled. “We need ano
ther girl Dreamtreader. Who else can appreciate my tastes in fashion?”
“Sorry, Razz. The new Dreamtreader is a guy named Nick Bushman from Australia. We’ll find him in a forest in Verse.”
“Okay, well, maybe the third will be a girl,” she said. “I suppose we should get to it. Direton first?”
Archer turned west with a grimace. There were always a ton of breaches in Direton. It was where Number 6 Rue de la Morte, the Shadowkeep, still stood . . . the fortress from which the Nightmare Lord himself once ruled . . .
Steadying the board and then crouching, Archer turned on Visis Nocturne, his sideways vision. The landscape darkened, and instantly Archer felt his reservoir of mental energies surging. It felt good. There was great power, exhilarating power, but it was draining away rapidly. He would only be able use the Visis Nocturne for a short time. And what he saw in the Dream fabric was alarming: the web of threads trembled, whole sections swung loose, and others seemed to be fraying . . . or burning. Where the breaches ruptured the Dream fabric, pockets of fire flared. But the west was by far the worst. In the west, the horizon was ablaze.
No, it wasn’t quite fire, but more like ice, spreading like flash frost up from the horizon and climbing slowly, flickering and licking upward. Ice-fire, something possible only in the Dream, and it wasn’t a good thing.
“So, Archer?” Razz asked. “Direton?”
Archer sighed. “We’ll start there,” he said. “But we’re going to be crazy busy. I can see them . . . hundreds at least. Looks like more than ever.”
“Whatcha mean?” Razz asked, raising an eyebrow comically high. “You can see them? From here?”
“I can see them now, Razz,” he said. “Master Gabriel gave me Visis Nocturne.”
“Oh, that will help a ton!” Razz hovered just above Archer’s nose. “C’mon, Archer. We got this!”
“I don’t know, Razz,” he said. “This is going to test us.”
“Snap out of it, Archer,” she replied, flicking his nose with a paw. “You used to tell me we don’t have time for worrying.”
“Sorry, Razz,” he said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Splattering a few scurions might help,” Razz said. “It always makes me feel a little better.”
“Come to think of it,” Archer said, “I could use a good couple of splatterings.”
But after eight solid hours, Archer and Razz both had had more than their fill of breach repairs and scurion splatterings. And the Dreamscape was more turbulent than ever with Intrusion waves.
“Whoa, Archer, look out!” Razz squealed. She struggled to hold on to Archer’s sleeve as he maneuvered his board down the slope of a gigantic wave.
“Hold on,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He made the turn and slowed the board.
“You watching your time?” Razz asked through huffing breaths.
“Uh . . . yeah, we have like five hours still!” Archer exclaimed.
“You sure?”
Archer glanced over his shoulder at the night sky and Old Jack, the clock tower’s image hanging there like a moonlit cloud . . . or a ghost. He swallowed hard. He’d way overestimated his time. “Three hours should be enough. I hope.” He shook his head and let out a forceful sigh.
For the first time in his Dreamtreading career, he had lost track of exactly how many breaches they’d repaired. Dreamweaving for the large tears, Bezeal’s patching paste for the little ones—Archer and Razz had closed up more than 300 breaches before he’d lost count.
“What do you know about the Silentwood?” Archer asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Razz said.
Well, that’s good, Archer thought. Makes sense. Verse District was the most scenic—
“But deadly.”
“You wanna explain that?” Archer asked.
“Oh, Archer, it’s my favorite place to visit,” she said. “But not for long. It’s a forest, deep and lush, full of mysterious and stunning things to see. There are dangers at every turn, too. Creatures lurk there . . . and the Tripols.”
“Tripols?” Archer echoed, steering south toward Garnet Province. “What are Tripols?”
“Little people,” Razz said. “Big ears, big attitudes, and all kinds of trouble.”
“I’ve never seen them,” Archer said.
“You wouldn’t,” Razz said. “You only see them when they let you. And by then it’s probably too late. You’ll end up a butt of one of their jokes or at the bottom of their cook pot.”
“That it?” Archer muttered. “Sounds like a problem for a flying squirrel, not a Dreamtreader . . .”
“Not hardly,” Razz squeaked. “You know why it’s called the Silentwood?”
“Not really. What? Is it really quiet?”
“Actually, it can be noisy,” she replied. “Like I said, lots of wildlife. Then, sometimes, the whole place goes silent. That’s when you know you’re in deep trouble.”
Archer looked at Razz, just to make sure he was hearing right. “Why?”
“Something lives deep in the Silentwood, Archer. Few have ever seen it; I haven’t. It’s dreadful, whatever it is. Wherever it travels, that part of the woods goes completely silent. Everything hides.”
“Sounds like fun,” Archer mumbled. He kicked his board off one Intrusion wave and caught a smaller wave headed directly south, where the tall shadows waited.
TEN
THE SILENTWOOD
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME,” ARCHER SAID. HE STOOD at the base of the forest, an uneven border strewn with eight-foot-tall dark feathery ferns, thick tree trunks that forked again and again and again, and a massive tangle of thorns. Archer reached out to one of the glistening five-inch spikes and tested its point. “Ouch!” He shook his hand. “These things are no joke. How are we supposed to get in?”
Archer summoned a bit of will, and a wickedly edged three-foot machete appeared in his hand. He shrugged and lifted the tool, preparing a mighty hack.
“I wouldn’t,” Razz said.
Archer froze and looked back at the tangled forest. A pair of platter-sized eyes opened in the darkness, and a warm breeze washed over Archer. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, there’s something alive here. Heh, heh . . .” He stepped backward hastily.
A bubbling growl sounded from the trees.
“What is that?” Archer asked.
“A galoot,” Razz said. “What else would live in a thatch of life-threatening thorns?”
“Uhm . . . right.” Archer shook his head. “So, hacking into the forest is no good. Can we fly over and drop in? It’ll take a bit of my will, but—”
“Not worth it,” Razz said. “We’d get caught in the webs.”
“What webs?”
“The Silver Orb Weavers,” Razz said. “Their webs are everywhere.”
Archer shuddered. “Not a big fan of spiders. So, can’t walk in or fly in. How do you get in, Razz?”
“I go POOF!” Razz vanished in a double puff of purple smoke. Then she reappeared a moment later. “See?”
The galoot in the woods laughed. It was a sound like rustling leaves and distant thunder.
Archer glared at the woods. “Great, so now the forest monsters are laughing at me.” He turned back to Razz. “Look, Dreamtreaders can do a lot of crazy stuff, but we can’t go POOF. Is there any other way into the Silentwood?”
Razz spun in the air once, removed her acorn hat, and scratched thoughtfully at her scalp. “Well, maybe the tunnels.”
“Tunnels? There are tunnels into the forest.”
“Technically, they are under the forest, but yepperdoodle, you can get in that way.”
“Show me.”
Razz clapped and sped off to the west. They rounded a particularly nasty snarl of thorny vines and came to a swift stop at a tree stump. “Here’s one,” Razz said, pointing at the stump.
“Uh, that doesn’t look much like a tunnel.”
“Silly,” Razz muttered. She landed on the stump and her tail twitched. “No, not this. The
tunnel is underneath. Just give the stump a smack.”
As if that was the most obvious thing. Archer leaned over and slapped the stump. It made a hollow clicking sound, and then flung upward with such velocity that it shot Razz into the forest.
“Razz!” Archer bounded to the woods, skidding to a stop with a thorn just inches from his eyes. “Razz, are you okay?”
Archer heard some rustling around and a strange muffled cry. “Razz, what’s wrong? Razz, are you there?”
There came a wet SPLUT from the woods, and then Razz said, “Big ugly galoot, trying to eat me, were you? I’ll fix you!”
Archer winced at the bluster of noise, smacks, and crashes that splurted out of the woods. They ended with a series of deep whiny squeals, like a dog whimpering after being whacked with a newspaper. Razz reappeared moments later.
Her clothing was stained dark, and her fur was matted. “Don’t ask,” she grumbled. “Anyway, there’s the tunnel.”
Beneath the upturned stump, an earthen stair led down beneath the surface. It was as dark as pitch down there, but Archer had no fear of the dark. The Dreamtreader stepped down and held up a hand. A miner’s hat appeared on his head and flooded the tunnel with LED light.
The walls of the tunnel were half-packed clay and half-rugged stone. The path beneath Archer’s feet was as smooth as sanded wood, with nary a root or splinter. “I’ve been Dreamtreading here for eight years,” he said, “and I had no idea you could actually dig tunnels in the soil. Are there more?”
“Oh, yes,” Razz said, buzzing by Archer’s ear. “They’re all over.”
“Who dug the tunnels?”
“Dunno,” she replied. “Some say the Nightmare Lord. Some say the Lurker.”
“That’s not especially encouraging,” Archer muttered. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the tunnel dropped us into a pit of spears or a vat of boiling lava.”