Walk to the End of the World by Suzy McKee Charnas Page A

pull his people together. Kelmz was ashamed of d Layo’s blatant theatrics, and he hoped that the one-eyed ferryman wouldn’t suffer for all this in the end. For a man who bore no responsibility himself, d Layo was adept at maneuvering those who did.
    The dreaming-group went back to the story-box area and hung mats from the ceiling for privacy. A ferryman brought a pitcher of beer and some mismatched mugs on a tray; another supplied a mixing-whisk of straws bound with cord. D Layo squatted by a brazier and heated the beer, not bothering with the Chants Preparatory. The others, seated in a circle around him, began to murmur the Chant Thankful, which extolled the virtues of the hemp: it provided fiber to clothe men’s bodies, food for their nourishment, and manna for the dreaming of their souls. Sullen-face sweated a lot, and stuttered every time he chanted the refrain.
    It was, Kelmz thought, going to be one sorry excuse for any kind of a dreaming.
    D Layo used the doubled-over hem of his shirt to pad the hot handle of the pitcher. A sweet scent rose as he shook powder from the compartments in his bracelet into the steaming liquid. He whipped the mixture in the cups before taking the ceremonial first sip from each one.
    A man could grow attached to the rituals, especially if (like Kelmz) he was accustomed to being dream-giver to Rovers who were utterly dependent on him in that role. The Chants Commanding, which went with Rover-dreaming, kept running through Kelmz’ mind. He glanced at the Endtendant, whose angular face showed nothing at all.
    It was absurd to impute nostalgia to him, of course. The dream he had given had always been death. He could hardly have put off his own bracelet of office with any feeling but relief.
    D Layo began handing out the cups. Bek refused with a wordless shake of his head, and no one made anything of it; but when Kelmz hesitated, he noticed that several of the ferrymen were watching him anxiously. Perhaps they had never DarkDreamed before. They trusted Kelmz’ judgment and were waiting for him to drink.
    This wouldn’t be the first time Kelmz had DarkDreamed. He had indulged once or twice to no great effect, with fellow officers. That
had been before he had started seeing beasts, a thing that had come upon him suddenly soon after Danzer had died with his throat torn out by a rogue Rover. Kelmz had not DarkDreamed since then. His waking visions were DarkDream enough.
    Now he looked into the cup, warming his hands on the glazed surface, and thought, why not? He was an outlaw among outlaws, his legitimate life was over. He drank.
    The manna-beer tasted gluey; d Layo hadn’t taken time to mix it properly, the slovenly brute.
    The others drank too. They hunched closer together and listened to d Layo, who had begun a low, singing-chant.
    A man was supposed to be an individual. He was supposed to go apart and strengthen his soul with a dream from among those taught in the Boyhouse, which were all on the same heroic themes: dreams of victorious battles against monsters, dreams of power and wealth bent to the good of lesser men, dreams of manly love and lifelong loyalties, dreams of endurance and achievement - an endless selection of patterns keynoted to the manly virtues. In this way the soul could be schooled independently of the drowning flesh. Each man, in command of his own dreaming, chose the proper dream for his own needs and weaknesses.
    D Layo told them to forget all that and give him control. He would show them how to free their souls for the delight of knowing what they were, not what they ought to be. It was seditious nonsense that undermined manly self-discipline and integrity, but he made it attractive.
    ‘Let me teach you,’ d Layo murmured, ‘to relax your mind and soul, to open the dark core of yourself and free what lives there. Every soul is equal before a DarkDreamer, and every soul is unique; what is your soul?’
    The insidious lure of DarkDreaming lay partly in this