So you know of the Sands of Nane, that place of longing and the lost; where the sleeping surrender their every treasure, in time. But do you know of the City at its center? The abode of His Grace- the monarch of all Dream- the Sandman? Traverse the Hollow Markets with me, my friend. Don't touch the faery fruit. Read on, if you must. Don't get lost. I mean it. Please. I don't think I could stand it if another got lost.
The Spiral City of Zimdazaar:
Wishes and Wasted Time
---
The red sands give way to gold, the gold give way to silver, the silver give way to bright, mind-shattering pink- a pink beyond color, the pink of your fondest forgotten thing, of the time before birth. Don't weep, for the tears will come away syrupy and crystal-clear. Don't laugh, or you will make yourself deaf. Don't look at the monument of rose-quartz on the highest spire of the distant palace.
The gates into Zimdazaar are, as everything within the city, coiled tightly. Wrought gold the color of strawberries twines around itself as though alive. You must speak your most loathsome secret to enter, they say; such burdens are contraband, and the Mares would be on you in a fraction of an instant. Think very deeply before you let it go, in a breath like smoke and charcoal. It comes up shakily, tearing at the lungs and gums, burning your throat and tongue with spite and shame.
The Game is begun. The Mares stand with ivory eyes locked upon you. They will weigh your guilt, pure and rotten and whole, on a silver scale, and you will stand upon the other side. Which is heavier, friend? Your mind, or the thoughts you banished from it? Your body, or the urges that you imprisoned between your skin and bone? Your soul, or the forgiveness you could not bear to give from it?
You, or all that you would not become?
And if you pass, if you weigh less than the deeds you have lost- even if such a thing were possible, for a dreamer (but it is! It is! For I have done it, I have, believe me!)- you will be admitted to the Hollow Markets. The gossamer curtains below pitch and shiver like a vast fluttering eyelid, but the Mares promise that you are light enough. And you are.
You wander to and fro across the wide bolts of cloth, thinner than a hair in some places, and you do not fall, you cannot. (Light as a feather! Lighter! Lighter still!) And here you are in the only truly empty halls of Dream. Though there are stalls and signs and wares, shops and tools and all of the trappings of market, the only breath that stirs this place is your own.
Come, now, away from that. I've warned you against the fruit. Best to stay away from the jewels, too- the difference is all too slim, when you're asleep. Do you hear that- one unbroken note. Do you know how long they've been singing that same note? So long! Hundreds! Thousands! Of what? Doesn't matter. That song, lovelier than a lark, has been sung since Dream began, and will die when the last withered Dreamer shudders to death peacefully in its embrace.
(Follow it, fool! Follow it, for it's your only way out! What are you doing here still, among the markets? I told you they were hollow! Hollow! Worthless! Mere glamours! GO! FIND THE CHOIR, OR BE SUNG TO YOUR GRAVE! Don't listen to the storyteller, listen to ME!)
You're running. Running, running, running, across endless bolts of fabric strung between endless rickety reeds, up through spirals like the shell of a nautilus. The beached dream of a whale, it seems, strung taut and dry and crackling in the parched sands. From up here, you can see all of Nane! You can see the Mist that surrounds us all, stretching off for meaningless miles in every direction that is and is not. You can see beyond, even...
(NO NO YOU CAN NOT YOU NEVER WILL FOR NOD DOES NOT PERMIT SUCH THINGS FOR THAT IS A PRIVILEGE OF GODS ALONE AND YOU ARE NO GOD AND I AM NO GOD AND EVEN NOD IS NO--)
You keep listening to the blaspheming voice in your mind.
(NO THE SONG THE SONG OF THE WISHING-CHOIR YOU HEAR THEM YOU HEAR THEM STILL NOT ME NEVER THIS IS NOT THE WAY)
A hand falls on your shoulder. It is warm, it is waxy, it is brown. And it guides you gently into the Palace. There is a statuary garden. Trees with silver trunks drop leaves onto the ground. They are ash by the time they reach it. The busts are lined up to either side of the walkway. They all have their eyes closed in sleep, their mouths open in song. You look up into the face of your guide. He has a lined face, ash-dusted skin- and his eyes have been sewn shut with a thread of spider-silk. He does not see you look. But he knows you do.
"If these ever open, you will never again close your own. Nobody will," he chuckles, a bit sadly, "can you imagine that? No more naps in a sunbeam. No more exhaustion at the end of a days' work. And no more Dream."
You realize. You kneel. You beg his pardon, weeping tears like clotted amber. They rattle to the ground around you.
And you look up. You see the kindness in his smile. You see the ash on his robe. You feel a deep sorrow, for this man, this old, old man who has dreamt along with you for all your life, only so that you could know the story behind his eyes. You tell him what you lost. As I did. As we all will. He smiles. He nods- it's how he got his name, they say. Only one question remains.
Will you wake to a dream come true?
Return to the Observatory...