Catechisms

[catch]

Noun. A manual giving basic instruction in a subject, usually by rote or repetition. A body of fundamental principles or beliefs, especially when accepted uncritically. Do you sleep? Do you dream? Are you dreaming now?

A series of formal questions, with the intent to bring about a personal view.

Catch moved as if he were a part of the Wood, and any who were familiar with his hesitant, shuffling gait would marvel at it, now. The snow had long receded, with but a bare patch, here and there, of crusty-grey leavings scattered amidst the brown of decay, and the new-green of growing things pushing impatiently past it, eager for a taste of the spring sun before the blossoms that hung, heavy, in the skeletal trees, obscured it with fresh greenery in order to replace what still lay moist and scattered across the ground.

He was looking for flowers, discovering - in his slow, uncertain way - that those he plucked and brought back to the Dagger never lasted long. He could not describe what he saw, because he did not know that others could see as he did. He saw the tiny songs of promise that new growth represented, each one flaring as a taste on his tongue. Where here there was life and death intermingled, the ones in the Broken Dagger that he brought were only sour and bitter.

The sky above was nothing but a crisp, blue lake, scattered with apple-flavored clouds and the chamomile of the blazing sun. He saw a hiding fawn, and it had an earthy taste, notes hung in the air like the spots of it's coat, sweet and cheerful, and he told it so with a whisper in it's ear, and a shy, gentle stroke of it's dappled coat. And then he was away again, trotting down no particular trail, but following the smell of color and the taste of song.

He had been asked before if he slept, or dreamed. He had a dream just like this, but what was a dream, and what was real? He didn't, and couldn't, know. The Dreamlady, Ser Glenn, Elliot and Dulcie, and even the Uniforms could be his dream, and he could still be dwelling alone in that impenetrable darkness, as lost and delirious as everyone thought he was now. Everything he felt, everything he saw and smelled and tasted and touched, was as real to him. And he couldn't even tell if he slept or not, save for the inexplicable passing of time.

To Catch, moments lasted for hours, and the sun could rise and set in the mere blinking of an eye.

This was very like a dream he remembered - or a day - where everything was good and growing, where Catch was content - even happy! - where everything was where it should be, and nothing terrible raged in his mind, and the trees didn't moan or shatter the sky to pieces with the force of the wind, where it would dissolve into a swarm of angry flies. He was here.

Something caught his eye, then - an interruption of the dream, or something new in the Wood. Much like the flash of a dew-leaf in the sun, it instead bobbed like a will-o'-the-wisp, crystal and silver and the white of a moon.

Catch hesitated to follow it, but it drew him like nothing else. Quite suddenly, he had to see what this thing was. It was the wish of the dream, or it was his own insatiable curiosity. Either way, he would satisfy it.

___________________________________________________

[catch]

Catch wasn't sure how much time had passed, from when he had first glimpsed the mysterious light to now, as he pushed through an increasingly foreign forest that was made more of everlasting pine than trees who stripped their leaves for every winter. So, too, did the sun change, casting red, bloody fingers across the world in a morbid tint. It terrified Catch; it was all-too easy for the addled man to bridge the gap, and he shuddered as the sun's blood dripped from the trees, leaving foul puddles full of squirming maggots in pools along the ground.

And still, he pressed on. For the further he followed the bobbing, weaving light, the more and more it felt as if he must follow it, as if everything hinged on him catching up with that light, discovering what it was, no matter how much his shattered mind tortured him. What had been dream-like to start, naught but a typical day, slowly became more and more hellish.

The sun's just setting, he forced himself to think, in a manner that would have made those that knew him proud. Catch broke into a run, strong-arming a mutilated body that dangled from the trees, flayed of it's skin, out of his way. No, not a body; it was just a wet branch, torn and sodden with a mass of wet needles. Why, he could even feel the scratch of the needles on his skin, but - glancing back - the horrible thing still swayed there, mocking his senses with the smell of gore.

The more he ran, the further the beautiful light seemed to get. The more he ran, the more something in his head refused to be sensible, refused to let him seek out this thing in peace. Even his ears turned against him, filled only with the fevered buzzing of flies in clotted swarms about the pools of blood. The wet and sluggish feel of worms crawled in his skull, made him dizzy and sick of running.

If only he'd stop. That was an insidious whisper that shivered through the scar, left his mind exposed to the open air. If he stopped, then surely all this would stop as well. He should turn back around, return to the Dagger, leave the crystal sprite where it was.

It was the whine of the wolf in his head, and he pushed it all away, his entire world becoming that bobbing, weaving speck of silver, a star that had escaped from the confines of his head and spurred him onwards. But he couldn't run forever. The smell of death choked his nostrils, and he was quite sure he'd stepped in something quite foul - a scattering of innards strewn across his path - and his lungs felt as fragile as rotted honey.

He had to stop, his chest heaving with moist gasps, as he came across a pool of blood far too large for him to avoid stepping in. He had to gather his courage, which was rapidly disappearing, since he could no longer readily ignore what his world had become, and he stared about himself with wide eyes and trembling frame. The silver light danced, just beyond the pool, and - faintly - there came a sound of laughter, carefree and eternal.

Even if the sun were dying, that voice seemed to say. Even if the sun were pouring it's life-blood onto the world, and everything wilted and tore, I'd still be here. Alive.

Catch looked down at the pool of blood, at the urging of whatever mocking, cruel creature dwelt in his mind, and though it was as viscous and impenetrable as ever, it's surface still reflected as clearly as a mirror.

He had been chasing the light for years. Decades. His youthful face had wasted away, paper-thin and spotted face yellowed with age, his eyes milky and unseeing in sunken wrinkles, his hair thin and brittle as it scattered across his marred skull in cancerous patches. He could not chase the light if he wanted to. His body was wasted, worn, as brittle as sugar, his joints stiff and unyielding.

Even if he wanted to continue the chase, he couldn't. His body, as fragile with age as it had become, would not let him.

Catch howled with animal grief as the crystal light left him, the laughter a mere whisper in his ears until it, too, was gone. The wolf howled, too, but his was mocking, filled with cruel laughter, and it lingered, cutting through Catch's shattered mind as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Did he dream? Every moment of the day, and every moment of the night.