you.”
It occurred to Rosacher that it was the height of idiocy to offer medical advice to someone who might be a figment of his imagination, yet he inquired of the man as to what portion of reality he might represent. Was he an embodiment of the dragon, the image sent to deliver a message, or a living person co-opted for that purpose? And how had he acquired this foreknowledge of his, Rosacher’s, fate?
“Were I to answer ‘yes’ to your first two questions, I would not be far off the mark,” the man said. “Your third question requires a more complicated answer. Though he was once a mortal creature, long-lived yet born to die, Griaule has grown not only in size, but also in scope. Demiurge may be too great a word to describe him, but he is akin to such a presence. An incarnation, if you will. His flesh has become one with the earth. He knows its every tremor and convulsion. His thoughts roam across the plenum, and his mind is a cloud that encompasses our world. His blood…” He made a florid gesture that seemed to include the entire surround. “His blood is the marrow of time. Centuries and days flow through him, leaving behind a residue that he incorporates into his being. Is it any wonder that he knows our fates?”
“Nonsense,” Rosacher said, annoyed by the man’s unctuous certitude. “Griaule is a lizard. A monumental lizard who may possess some potency, an ability to influence the weak-minded; but he is nonetheless a lizard and thus mortal. He bleeds, he breathes, and he will die.”
“He will die when he wishes to die,” said the man. “As do all perfected souls who give their light to the world. But I came to warn you, not to debate philosophical matters.”
“This is scarcely a debate. There is nothing at issue.”
The man stood and studied Rosacher. “You are a fool, but in Griaule’s design there is a place for fools. Do you not wonder why I was sent?”
“No more than I’m inclined to wonder about why my ass itches. I assume it’s because of an irritation, something disagreeable that caused an adverse reaction.”
The man shook his head ruefully and said, “I almost wish my warning would be in vain.” He then gave a curt salute and strode off at the same rapid pace with which he had approached, merging with the other dark figures carried by the dragon’s blood.
As unnerved by the man’s abrupt exit as he had been by his advent, Rosacher called after him, not wishing to be alone in that solitude. When he did not reappear, Rosacher braced himself with the thought that the man might have proven even more annoying had he stayed. The patterns of the blood troubled his sight. He closed his eyes, yet continued to see them in his mind’s eye and was seduced by their consistent flow, their ceaseless evolution and by the intimations he began to receive from them—shimmers of emotion, fragmentary landscapes, pieces of memory all, but memories that he did not recognize for his own, like the glints of ornamental carp glimpsed beneath the surface of a golden pond.
He woke into a pitch-dark room, rain driving against the walls of the house, a firm mattress and satin sheets beneath him, and had a sense of familiar enclosure. His room, his house. He fumbled for a candlestick, but recalled the man’s warning. It was the height of the ridiculous to heed a warning voiced in a dream, and yet the dream had been so unusual in form and substance, he was compelled to give it credence. Holding his breath, he eased from beneath the covers. The floor was cold. He crept away from the bed, wary of creaking boards, and groped his way along the wall until he located a corner. He stood with his back pressed against the angle of the walls, and began to feel even more foolish for having obeyed the compulsion of a dream. A noise alerted him and he froze in place. A clock ticked, the rain drummed. The cold of the floor spread through his limbs, and then a flurry of noise came from the bed, sounding as if
It occurred to Rosacher that it was the height of idiocy to offer medical advice to someone who might be a figment of his imagination, yet he inquired of the man as to what portion of reality he might represent. Was he an embodiment of the dragon, the image sent to deliver a message, or a living person co-opted for that purpose? And how had he acquired this foreknowledge of his, Rosacher’s, fate?
“Were I to answer ‘yes’ to your first two questions, I would not be far off the mark,” the man said. “Your third question requires a more complicated answer. Though he was once a mortal creature, long-lived yet born to die, Griaule has grown not only in size, but also in scope. Demiurge may be too great a word to describe him, but he is akin to such a presence. An incarnation, if you will. His flesh has become one with the earth. He knows its every tremor and convulsion. His thoughts roam across the plenum, and his mind is a cloud that encompasses our world. His blood…” He made a florid gesture that seemed to include the entire surround. “His blood is the marrow of time. Centuries and days flow through him, leaving behind a residue that he incorporates into his being. Is it any wonder that he knows our fates?”
“Nonsense,” Rosacher said, annoyed by the man’s unctuous certitude. “Griaule is a lizard. A monumental lizard who may possess some potency, an ability to influence the weak-minded; but he is nonetheless a lizard and thus mortal. He bleeds, he breathes, and he will die.”
“He will die when he wishes to die,” said the man. “As do all perfected souls who give their light to the world. But I came to warn you, not to debate philosophical matters.”
“This is scarcely a debate. There is nothing at issue.”
The man stood and studied Rosacher. “You are a fool, but in Griaule’s design there is a place for fools. Do you not wonder why I was sent?”
“No more than I’m inclined to wonder about why my ass itches. I assume it’s because of an irritation, something disagreeable that caused an adverse reaction.”
The man shook his head ruefully and said, “I almost wish my warning would be in vain.” He then gave a curt salute and strode off at the same rapid pace with which he had approached, merging with the other dark figures carried by the dragon’s blood.
As unnerved by the man’s abrupt exit as he had been by his advent, Rosacher called after him, not wishing to be alone in that solitude. When he did not reappear, Rosacher braced himself with the thought that the man might have proven even more annoying had he stayed. The patterns of the blood troubled his sight. He closed his eyes, yet continued to see them in his mind’s eye and was seduced by their consistent flow, their ceaseless evolution and by the intimations he began to receive from them—shimmers of emotion, fragmentary landscapes, pieces of memory all, but memories that he did not recognize for his own, like the glints of ornamental carp glimpsed beneath the surface of a golden pond.
He woke into a pitch-dark room, rain driving against the walls of the house, a firm mattress and satin sheets beneath him, and had a sense of familiar enclosure. His room, his house. He fumbled for a candlestick, but recalled the man’s warning. It was the height of the ridiculous to heed a warning voiced in a dream, and yet the dream had been so unusual in form and substance, he was compelled to give it credence. Holding his breath, he eased from beneath the covers. The floor was cold. He crept away from the bed, wary of creaking boards, and groped his way along the wall until he located a corner. He stood with his back pressed against the angle of the walls, and began to feel even more foolish for having obeyed the compulsion of a dream. A noise alerted him and he froze in place. A clock ticked, the rain drummed. The cold of the floor spread through his limbs, and then a flurry of noise came from the bed, sounding as if
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