The Book of Dreams Read online

  “The gateways have been destroyed.

  All of them. The bond between Faerie and

  the Earthworld has been severed.”

  Since the dawn of time, the world of humans and the world of fairies have hung like two shining apples on the tree of life—separate but joined together, one providing dreams and the other, dreamers. Now a dark enemy has destroyed all connection between the two, thus dooming both. It is up to Dana, daughter of a mortal and a fairy, to bridge the worlds again. The key to her quest lies in the Book of Dreams. But this magic book is hidden far from Dana’s home in Ireland, and finding it will take her on an epic journey through a new world of dangers.

  The Book of Dreams is the final volume in a grand and romantic adventure series, The Chronicles of Faerie, which began with The Hunter’s Moon, continued with The Summer King and The Light-Bearer’s Daughter, and can be read in any order.

  Also by O.R. Melling

  The Druid’s Tune

  The Singing Stone

  My Blue Country

  In The Chronicles of Faerie

  The Hunter’s Moon

  The Summer King

  The Light-Bearer’s Daughter

  The Book of Dreams

  Adult Fiction

  Falling Out of Time

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Melling, O. R.

  The book of dreams / by O.R. Melling.

  p. cm. — (The chronicles of Faerie ; 4)

  Summary: Now thirteen and depressed, Dana has been living with her father and his new wife in Canada for a year, and when she finds that her gateway to the land of Faerie has been mysteriously shattered, she must travel the length and breadth of Canada to find the secret that will reopen the Faerie world.

  ISBN 978-0-8109-8346-5

  [1. Fairies—Fiction. 2. Indians of North America—Canada—Fiction. 3. Voyages and travels—Fiction. 4. Magic—Fiction. 5. Canada—Fiction.] 1. Title.

  PZ7.M51625Bo 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008024689

  Text copyright © 2009 O.R. Melling

  Map illustration copyright © 2009 Bret Bertholf

  Permissions constitute an extension of this copyright page.

  Published in 2009 by Amulet Books, an imprint of Harry N. Abrams, Inc. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  www.abramsbooks.com

  For Rosemary, soul sister

  Go raibh míle maith agaibh to all in Ireland: Findabhair of the laughing fairies; the supporting cast of my family, especially Georgie Whelan, Pat Burnes, and Patrick and Georgina Black; Michael Scott; Martha and John O’Grady; Sherron St. Clair; Jenny O’Reilly; Kate and Marcus McCabe of the Ark, Co. Monaghan; Frank Golden and Eve Golden-Woods; the wonderful staff of the Tyrone Guthrie Centre; Victor/Victoria’s Way in Round-wood, Co. Wicklow; Ven. Panchen Otrul Rinpoche and Ven. Tenzin Choeden (Margery Cross) of Jampa Ling, Co. Cavan; the Arts Council of Ireland and Cultúr Eireann for travel grants; and Wicklow County Council for a bursary award.

  Merci beaucoup to those in Canada: Dr Nena Hardie, dearest friend in Toronto; the Creemore Durnfords, bagpipes and all; Yvonne and Deirdre Whelan for being themselves; Jean-Francois Pinsonneault et sa fille, Mélissa; Bette George for teachings and a bed “in the bush”; Lynn Bennett of TLA Inc; Michael Mesure for his wonderful work with FLAP (Fatal Light Awareness Program); the Native Canadian Centre in Toronto; and Prairie Ceilidh, the band who whooped me through the last lap.

  A big thanks to those in the USA: John Duff and Brian Levy, dear friends and hosts in New York, and all at Abrams, especially my editor, Susan van Metre.

  Last but not least, my heartfelt thanks to Na Daoine Maithe and the many Man-i-tou who kindly gave their inspiration and assistance.

  It was the early hours before dawn. A cool mist hung over the waters of the great lake, which lay still and luminous in the moonlight. The sandy beach was deserted except for the wolf. He was a big animal, black-haired, with a white star across his chest. His eyes glowed like amber. After exploring the bluffs overlooking the lake, he padded softly along the boardwalk. Now he stopped. Sniffed the air. On the edges of the wind came a stench that repelled him. What was it? It emanated from the city beyond.

  There was a moment’s hesitation. The wolf had only recently come down from the North and he was not yet at home in this territory. For the short time he had lived there, he had kept to the nature trails and the marshes bordering the river that ran into the lake. But he was no ordinary wolf. He wasn’t afraid of urban streets and tonight he felt called to the heart of the city.

  It was easy to travel in the dark. Traffic was sporadic and few pedestrians were abroad. Anyone who spotted him assumed he was a stray dog, too big to approach. Nearing the city center, he skulked through the shadows of office blocks, hotels, and apartment buildings. The streets were almost empty except for night-shift workers and the homeless who made their beds in doorways and bus shelters. He nosed the air with distaste. What couldn’t be seen could be sensed: the sewers under the sidewalks, the smell of overcrowding, the fear and entrapment, bad dreams, failed hopes.

  With relief, he reached the green circle of Queen’s Park. Avoiding the pools of light shed by lamps on the walkways, he inhaled the night perfume of trees and flowers. Though the park was empty, it spoke to him of the day’s events. Here, the evidence of two dogs who had scuffled together in play. There, a popcorn kernel dropped from a hand-pushed wagon and missed by squirrels. Farther ahead, the track of an electronic wheelchair crossing bicycle treads. The odor of humans was everywhere: an old man who fed pigeons as their white droppings splattered over his bench; students from the university weighed down with books; Sufi dancers inscribing the grass with prints as light as sparrows’.

  A song floated on the currents of night air, wafting toward him. He raised his head to listen. It came from the government buildings beyond. He moved to investigate.

  The Legislative Building of the Province of Ontario was an impressive fortress of rose-colored sandstone. The walls were arched and carved with friezes. Lion heads and gargoyles grimaced above the wide steps. The wolf peered upward at the vaulted roof. Owls were gathering to hold their own parliament. He could hear the concern in their low hootings. He was not the only one disturbed that night.

  The song he was tracing grew louder now, as if calling to him. It didn’t come from the dim galleries inside. Around the corner of the building, he found the singer. It was a statue of a tall angelic man with shoulder-length hair and a loose robe skirting bare feet. He appeared to be walking across a low stone wall. He held a book in his hands. His head was bowed over it.

  “What are you reading?” the wolf wondered out loud.

  “A book of dreams.”

  The voice seemed to come from far away.

  “Whose dreams?”

  “Ah, that is the question.”

  Riddles. It was a night of mystery.

  “Strange times
,” he said, “when statues talk.”

  “And wolves listen.”

  The wolf barked a laugh, but he was uneasy. “Why were you singing?”

  “To ward off evil. Something wicked this way comes.”

  “I knew it. I can smell it.”

  “Will you fight?”

  “It’s not my business.”

  “There is no neutral ground in this war. The thing hates all life wherever it is found.”

  The wolf shuddered. In his heart, he knew that the statue spoke the truth. The scent itself was almost overpowering. Sour and metallic. A noxious leak in the air. Like something rotten, yet it wasn’t organic, so how could it rot? He wanted to gag. There was no point in debating the matter. He knew to which side he belonged.

  Racing away, nose to the ground, the wolf followed the trail easily. The buildings around him grew taller, pressed closer, making him anxious. He had reached the financial heart of the city. All around him were the head offices of banks, insurance companies, and law firms. He stayed in the shadows, always on guard. When the sound echoed overhead, he flattened himself against the pavement.

  It was a feathery, whispering, sighing sound, like an onrush of wind, filling the air. The susurration of wings surging like the sea.

  Relieved, the wolf looked skyward. Of course. The season had begun. The Great Fall Migration. Through the darkness they flew, immense flocks of birds. For millennia they had followed this route, foraging for food by day, traveling by night. Each spring they set out for their breeding grounds in the north and each autumn they returned to warmer climes. It was a journey bred into their being.

  The wolf was so caught up in the beauty of the birds’ flight that the new sound came like a blow to his ears. The thud of a small body as it fell to earth. The sound came again. And again. And again. Like hard rain. Like bullet casings. The wolf searched the shadows with keen eyes. Now he saw them, scattered at the base of the office towers, on the steps, and in the doorways. Tiny bodies, stunned or lifeless.

  For millennia they had followed this route but suddenly, in so short a time, everything had changed. Before they could cross the great lake of Ontario, they faced a perilous test that so many would fail. The buildings and towers that stood directly in their path shed a niagara of glass and blinding light. In the dark, the combination of glass and light was deadly.

  The wolf’s lips peeled back in a snarl. The death of the birds had already upset him, but there was something else. Something worse. The guard hairs on his body bristled from top to tail. The thing he could smell was nearby. It leaned casually against a wall, watching the birds die. It was enjoying the sight, feeding on the misery with a cold ravening hunger.

  The wolf growled low in his throat. The thing had no form that he recognized. It was a thick slimy mass, scaled and tentacled, glowing a sickly toxic green. Along with the telltale odor that was sour and metallic, its body seemed to vibrate with sound. The waspish drone buzzed loudly in the wolf’s head, making his teeth chatter.

  Without thinking twice, he launched himself at the monster.

  Too late, the wolf realized that he was no match for his enemy. Before he could even get near to the creature, the viscid tentacles snaked through the air and caught him in a death grip. Slowly, mercilessly, the grip tightened, choking the life out of him.

  Still, he fought back. This was his inheritance. A fierceness that was proud and lonely. A tearing, a howling, a hunger and thirst. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst. A wild strength that would die fighting, kicking, screaming, that wouldn’t stop till the last breath had been wrung from his body.

  The wolf’s eyes closed as the darkness gathered.

  Then human voices rang through the air.

  Three people turned the corner, bundled up In sweaters and scarves against the chill of pre-dawn. Two were women—a pretty college student and a gray-haired matron with strong, good-natured features. They were accompanied by a man in his early thirties, lean-jawed and determined. All carried brown paper bags and butterfly nets. In hushed tones they joked about dragging themselves out of bed for early patrols. Holy quests in the dark. None of them were morning people. All of them were bird people.

  Quietly, sadly, they stooped to retrieve the small bodies. Gently, reverently, they handled the slain.

  “This one’s alive!” the student cried. Her voice quavered with relief. Then a half sob. “Just barely.”

  The tiny body of a hummingbird rested in her palm, not much bigger than a dragonfly and as delicate and fragile. It moved feebly. She hurried to the others to offer her find. Under her breath she repeated her mantra. I will not cry.

  With the quiet efficiency of a nurse, the older woman removed her gloves to inspect the bird.

  “Broken beak. Wing damage, see how it droops? The eyes are swollen. Collision injuries. Michael—”

  The team leader had already blown air into a paper bag and lined it with tissue. Softly, softly he placed the bird inside.

  “I hate bagging them,” the student murmured. “Much better than a box,” Michael told her. “If they panic, the paper has give and is less likely to hurt them. We’ll look for the living now, bag them, and get them to the Center. Then we’ll return for the dead.”

  “There are a lot more dead,” the student said bitterly.

  She glared at the buildings, lit up like Christmas trees, creating the fatal light that trapped its victims. She knew the statistics. Hundreds of millions died every year due to collisions with human structures. Why keep the lights on? It was neither cheap nor efficient. Some firms liked the prestige—look at me on the skyline!—others were simply too lazy to make the arrangements to turn them off. Old habits die hard.

  So do small birds.

  She returned to her work, face streaked with tears. The two older volunteers exchanged a look. Unless the girl hardened she wouldn’t be able to continue. It happened to many. Like the birds on the sidewalk, they broke inside.

  Hidden from sight, in an alcove where he had dragged himself, the wolf watched the three work. They had revived his spirits. He was already recovering from the deadly attack. The monster itself was long gone, having fled a power much greater than itself.

  Banished by love.

  Gwen Woods hurried through Queen’s Park wishing she had time to stop and enjoy it. On a sunny afternoon in the last week of August, the park was green and leafy and full of life. Squirrels foraged in the grass, stocking their dreys for the winter. Pigeons flocked to the old man on the bench who threw bread crumbs. A woman in an electric wheelchair stopped to watch Sufi dancers at their sacred ballet. The popcorn man bumped his handcart over the curb.

  Gwen was in her early twenties, plump and pretty with golden-brown hair cut in a short bob. She was coming from a job interview and dressed in a beige suit with a pink blouse. Though she could hardly walk in her high heels, she kept trying to run in short bursts of speed. A quick glance at her watch told her she was late as usual.

  Leaving the park, she dashed across the road and on to Massey College. The wrought-iron gates at the entrance were open. Inside was a quadrangle of grass and trees. A clock tower rose above a fountain pool stocked with goldfish in among green reeds and lilies. Surrounding the quad was the orange brick residence that housed professors and postgraduate students. Each room looked down on the square through long narrow windows. Those working at their desks were illumined by lamps and computer screens.

  Gwen gave her name to the porter, and the room she wanted him to ring, then sat on a bench near the fountain to wait. Soothed by the plash of water and the stillness of the place, she felt a pang for her own student days. They seemed so carefree in comparison to the grueling search for a job, made all the worse by the fact that she was far from home. Her qualifications were recognized by the Ontario College of Teachers, but it was unlikely she would find a job this late in the year. Her only real chance was a temporary position; but in the meantime she was applying for office work in banks and insurance companies.
If all else failed, she was looking at a stint in a bar or restaurant. There were bills to pay and the rent on her little apartment.

  Even as Gwen grimaced to herself, she accepted the sacrifice she had been willing to make, the upheaval of her personal life and the likely damage to her career prospects. Would there be worse to come? She already knew the answer.

  • • •

  The worried look on Gwen’s face was the first thing Laurel noticed when she stepped into the quadrangle. It wasn’t reassuring. The meeting itself was something she was already unhappy about. Laurel had just settled into her rooms at Massey and was about to begin her studies for a master’s degree. Following in the footsteps of her paternal grandfather, she planned to be a professor of Irish Folklore. This meeting had, of course, to do with folklore. Not the kind found in books, but rather the kind that was alive and kicking.

  The first telephone call had been awkward for both of them.

  “Laurel Blackburn? Hi. I’m Gwen Woods. Sorry to bother you, but this is important. Very important. I’ve been told … I mean … mutual friends … in the other place—”

  “Who told you?”

  “What?”

  “Who told you about me?”

  “Oh. Uh. Granny. Grania Harte. She’s an old lady. Irish.”

  Laurel could hear the hesitancy and knew that Gwen was having difficulty bringing up the subject. Along with the fact that they were total strangers, it was never easy to talk about Faerie. The spells woven around that magic land helped to obscure and protect it. And the Irish always said it was unlucky to talk about “the Good People.”

  “Granny’s a fairy doctress,” Gwen said, in a rush of words. “A white witch you could call her. She lived in Faerie for seven years, where she gained her knowledge of the secret arts. She says she met you a few years ago?”

  Laurel answered guardedly. “Yes, I remember. On a train crossing Ireland.”