‘O ye, all ye that walk in Willow-wood,

That walk with hollow faces burning white;

What fathom-depth of soul-struck widowhood,

What long, what longer hours, one lifelong night,

Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed

Your last hope lost, who so in vain invite

Your lips to that their unforgotten food,

Ere ye, ere ye again shall see the light!

Alas! the bitter banks of Willowwood,

With tear-spurge wan, with blood-wort burning red:

Alas! if ever such a pillow could

Steep deep the soul in sleep till he were dead,—

Better all life forget her than this thing,

That Willowwood should hold him wandering!’

(D.G. Rossetti)

every captain is cursed

and every curse, i suspect,

lures them to the same place.

Clara loved dreaming. She dreamed easily, often, and sometimes even without sleeping! She’d dream about people she’d met and places she’d visited. She’d also, on occasion, travel to strange cities and talk to creatures she had never seen—and that was one of her favorite things about dreaming: she could talk. In the waking world, she’d lost that ability because of an injury. In her dreams, however, not only could she speak, but sing as well—and that was perhaps the thing Clara loved best.

She’d been to vast forests before, peaks overlooking misty oceans, and even once to a desert where the sands were covered in white old bones in every direction, as far as the eye could see. This time, however, Clara came to a dark place. The stone was cold under her feet, and the air was quiet. Looking up, the sky showed no stars, no clouds, no moon. The only light in this vast, hollow space was a dim purple radiance emanating from a stone obelisk, around which the huge form of a black serpent entwined.

As the girl stepped nearer and into the light, the serpent uncoiled itself and slithered through the air until one of its eyes hovered in front of Clara, a large mirror inside which she saw herself and multitudes of shadows dancing in the distance.

“What are you, little thing,” the serpent spoke, “who enters my prison with neither fear nor awe?”

“I’m Clara,” she responded in the sign language Lazarus had been teaching her, but then she remembered this was a dream.

“Clara,” she spoke, “My name is Clara.”

“So it is,” the serpent swam in circles around the girl, “and that is good. Names are good. Shall I tell you mine?”

“A-cool-law-tracks-axe?” Clara mumbled, squinting.

The dragon, whose name was Akulatraxas, paused and stared, less confident but more intrigued.

“Amusing,” it hissed, and rows of sharp silvery teeth glinted behind what might have been a smile.

“Tell me, little abomination,” the serpentine shadow continued, “Why have you come?”

“I don’t know,” Clara shrugged. “I’m dreaming, it brought me here.”

“A dream?!” It exclaimed with an excited twitch but then collected itself as though embarrassed to display such emotion.

“Yes! It’s great, I can go to all sorts of places.”

“What a wonderful gift,” the serpent was gliding around Clara again. “To be able to move as one pleases. Yes, what an enviable gift.”

“Do tell me, anyhow,” Akulatraxas drew close, and Clara could see her reflection again, “Is there anything you desire? Anything at all, in that heart of yours. Clara… what would make you happy?”

Clara scratched her chin and blinked her eye several times. “I miss Samira,” she spoke in a sad voice. “She was nice and kind, and played the piano for me to sing. I miss her and I try real hard, but can’t find her in my dreams anymore. I would like to see Samira again.”

“That is easy!” said the serpent with enthusiasm. “Easy for me, anyway. I could help you with that, in exchange for a tiny favor, the smallest thing, really.”

“Oh?” Clara looked up with a smile. “Could you help me be with Samira again?”

“Yes, yes indeed,” it replied. “If you’d give me one of your dreams.”

“A dream?”

“One little dream, yes. You have them often, do you not? The evil people who imprisoned me in this place took the dreaming out of me. Do you understand? It is exceedingly tedious and lonely in here, and I cannot even dream. That would be very precious, to me, if I could dream again, even if it was just for a moment.”

“Um, okay.”

“So you agree?”

“Sure, mister Akoola. I’ll give you one of my dreams.”

“Then we are bound by this agreement,” the dragon shivered with satisfaction, “And since you owe me one of your dreams, I choose the one you are having right now.”

The moment it pronounced the word “now,” Akulatraxas’s mouth unhinged itself and constellations of teeth rained down on Clara like radiant spears out of the void. Each one, however, stopped barely an inch short of piercing her skin, and the ringing of a thousand hammers hitting a thousand anvils echoed through that strange chamber with the obelisk. The dragon recoiled in pain and bewilderment, leaving a trail of broken teeth. Clara, in turn, shrieked in fright and fell on her back. Except for the scare, no real harm had been done to her.

“You’re evil!” she shouted. “And this is a bad dream!”

The dragon roared in frustration.

“Evil? EVIL?!” it contorted in agony. “I am Akulatraxas the Immeasurable, Second of Seven Messengers, you petulant worm! I, magnificent among the wonders of all Creation, am forced to rot in this hole while YOU insects ravage the continents, and you DARE CALL ME EVIL?!”

Just then, Clara began to fade away.

“You bested me this time, One-Eyed Dreamer,” it sniggered, “for I failed to realize your true nature at first. Nonetheless, my end of the bargain is maintained—for you shall indeed be reunited with your beloved Samira before long, but it will be nothing, NOTHING like…”

The voice of Akulatraxas died away.

Clara woke with a violent start, her chest a cage of panicked heartbeats. As she pressed a tiny palm against her heart, she felt an object that had been caught in the fabric of her dress: it was long, sharp, and looked as though it was made of silver.

 “The past is an ocean of horrors,” Abigail mutters to herself.

It is late. She picks up a stone and throws it over the parapet. The night swallows the piece of rock.
It’s a long way down, long from the top of the Bulwark. Does the stone make any noise when it lands? She doesn’t hear it. It is a long way down. She picks another.

“The past is an ocean,” she throws with a grunt, “…of horrors.”

She listens. No sound, nothing but the wind. Maybe it landed on a mound of snow. That would be likely, since there is nothing down there anymore, nothing except snow and debris. She looks around but finds no more rocks to throw. There’s nothing left. She closes her eyes. Warm.
Below, there’s Shanty Town: home once, now a graveyard. Now…
“The past is an ocean…”

“Of horrors?” someone says.

The swords come out. They’re fast, like bolts of silver lightning. In one instant, they’re homing in on the throat of…
“Sid?!” Abigail halts mid-motion, her blades crossed scissor-like.
“WHOA!” goes wide-eyed Sid, jumping back to remove his neck from the range of Abby’s twin blades. He’s half-holding, half-brandishing an uncorked bottle, almost as if it could work as a shield.

“Hey, lil’ sister,” he totters away towards the inner wall of the Bulwark, then half-sits, half-collapses against the body of a stone gargoyle. “You’re a dangerous one to stalk, didja know?”
“Did he send you?”
“Did who send me?”
“I’m not fucking kidding, Sid. Did he send you?”
“No.”
“Did SHE send you?”
“I really don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Never mind.”
“Wanna drink?”
“…”
“Come have a drink with your ol’ pal Sid.”

“...give here.”

He throws her the bottle and mounts the gargoyle. Within the city walls, a tapestry of street lanterns and candlelit windows unfolds below and away, as far as the eye can see. Abigail sniffs the bottle and takes a long sip, then walks up to Sid.

“How did you find me?”
“Gut feeling.”
“What do you want?”
“Wanted to see you.”
“Are you here to kill me?”
“Nah.”
“You saw what I did today, right?”
“The whole city saw that.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What did Lazarus say?”
“To me? Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Not in words… but if you ask me, he liked Edwin. They were best pals once, or something.”
“He knows why I did it.”
“If he does, he didn’t tell me.”
“Is this why you’re here? To find out why I killed Edwin?”
“I’m sure you had your reasons, Abby.”
“It’s Abigail now.”
“Sure thing, Abby.”
“Sid, what the fuck are you really doing here?”
“You’re hurting too much.”
“Excuse me?”

He rolls up his left sleeve, revealing an intricate mosaic of scars on top of scars—some deeper, some less so, some older and fading, some fresh and raw—all crisscrossing and spiraling into and out of each other, a painful-looking sort of text, map, or twisted art.

“What is this?” Abigail asks, gaping at the tortured skin.
“A gift from our fairy godfather.”
“He did this to you?”
“He does this to people who work for him.”
“But WHY?!”
“To keep tabs on us, for one thing. And to give us a certain… edge.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s different for each person. Mine, for instance… if someone’s about to attack or double-cross me, I’ll know it—I just will—way before they do it.”
“Magic?”
“S’pose so.”
“You get to… know what people will do before they do it?”
“What they WANT to do.”
“Sounds… useful.”
“Sometimes. But it’s a fucking curse.”
“A curse?”

Sid motions for Abigail to return the bottle. He drains it in one gulp and then tosses the empty thing away. Several seconds go by before they hear the distant crash.

“I can’t turn it off. People brush past me, and I feel what they WANT. You’d think the average person would be full of regular, boring old hopes and dreams, but I’ve been around enough of them. I’ve felt exactly what they lust for. Hell is here, Abby, right here with us. All the demons are here.

“One day I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, but Lazarus wouldn’t let me. In a way, I’m grateful, ‘cause I’ve killed a lot of demons ever since. But after all this time, I think I’ve gone a little numb in my soul, know what I mean? Lazarus… I wish I’d never gone looking for him. I wish it every day. But I can’t turn back now, so I might as well do my job.”

He turns to look at Abigail and, for the first time, she notices how pale and weary he looks, how very different from the joyful, carefree Sid she met years ago.

“You used to be more fun, Sid,” she says, sitting next to him.
“Well, you used to not want to end yourself.”