Story: A Dream
Koos' bare feet burn against the hot packed earth as he stalks the pale figure across the savannah. The sun at its zenith rages, the open plain like an oven. Then, briefly, it is an oven -- blazing sun gone, in its place rows of searing red zig-zag elements fill the sky.
Back to the savannah. The lion hunts. The lion hunts. You have to be careful here.
In writing, the path to becoming a visser is a simple one: learn to Dream, find an object in the Dream that corresponds to an object in reality, bring together the Dream thing and the real thing. Thing is, what's what in reality isn't always the same in the Dream.
He stands -- a man, now. Naked, lean, sweat evaporating. Around his neck a leather cord, upon that cord a pale opalescent stone. He doesn't have time to admire how it sings to him as the sun makes it sparkle. Back to all fours, eyes amber, claws sharp; ready to sink teeth into white flesh. The lion hunts.
The milky naked form in the distance continues to run, seemingly in slow motion, never tiring. He can make out her figure; thin waist, wide hips, skin shimmering. She is one instance a woman, the next an albino zebra. Her black hair trails, floating as if underwater. He, too, is underwater. The salt ocean cool is against his coat. He struggles, lungs empty, light fading...
Back to the savannah. The lion.
How long has he hunted? He has learned that time can blur in the Dream. Dreaming is different than mere "dreaming", but similar in many ways. Here the world is fuzzy, mutable. Dangerous. A dream which would wake you drenched in sweat will kill you here...
No. Focus. Lion. Hunt.
His grandmother had taught him. How to Dream, the rules, the possibilities. It was an old thing; a thing of the land and their people. She showed him how she could bend a mind -- how to cast a line and dredge up the deepest secrets, how to break a man or how to help him find himself. It was a secret thing, and not all could learn. Not his mother, not his brothers. Because it was secret, it was dangerous. Vissers preferred their peers in graves.
So he hunted. He had to pass this test before their enemies discovered him. Weak, currently. A cub. He feels the cord at his neck. The stone is gone! Or had it been a dagger? The white bird continues to fly in the distance, black tailfeathers trailing.
The lion hunts. Hunts who?
He looks back; the lion is close now. Dark figure, stalking. His heartbeat comes fast with his breath. Why had he come here? He runs.
Outside the Dream, twenty-four stories up in his clean penthouse suite Nicolaas grins. Before him the dark, naked body of a young man is strapped to a chair, head lolling. The grandson of his old nemesis, that bitch Magda.
He'd have the last laugh. She might be too much for him to bite off, but she was old and would be dead soon enough. Once he gutted this fingerling and the old coelacanth choked the pond would be his alone. It was a lonely profession, playing with the minds of others, but a secret known by few stays secret longer.
It is ancient thing, the Dream. Older than his people, though his people discovered it -- refined it into what it is today. Made it a valuable, profitable tool. The people here hadn't even thought to give it a name.
He walks to the desk and draws his blade -- a thin thing like a whisker of silver. Best to be quick about it. Dirty work isn't his strong suit. A visser's ways lie in torture of the mind, in extracting secrets. He revelled in toying with minds in new and creative ways, revelling in the act of being God in others' heads. This waking world wet work was a thing of butchers and mongers.
A sound. A figure in the doorway. The grandson.
He is taller than Nicholas, glowing with youth, armoured in wiry muscle. A toothy grin splits the young man's face. It's her grin. Inherited. He bears a blade of opalescent stone in one hand. Where had he gotten that?
Nicolaas feels each of his years like a chained weight as he lunges. His nemesis' progeny is faster, surer-footed. Youth makes his small blade a claymore. The taller man pounces, a lion, fangs and claws bared.
Time slows to a point as the pale blade bites into Nicolaas' left eye. An inch. His vision explodes, a blaze like a sun within his head. A millimeter. He gasps for air, but it won't come -- time has made it thick as water. A micron. The pain spreads one aching neuron at a time. Something isn't right. Each moment screams for a generation. He dies for an eternity.
Outside of the Dream, in a small well-furnished room, Magda grins. Before her, the body of an old rival writhes and spasms on a daybed.
Her grandson Koos, the dear, enters the room with a cup of tea for her. As she takes it she hands him back his pale stone, shimmering with the Dream. He strings it back around his neck and takes a seat next to her, uncomfortable. He still finds this distasteful. Unnecessary. He has much to learn and much hardening to do, but he has time.
As he closes his eyes and enters the Dream, she leans in close to the form on the bed and whispers into one pink ear:
"The lion hunts"