Free Dreamseeker by C.S. Friedman Page B

shouldn’t be that way. A stranger shouldn’t be able to control my own dream better than I can.
    Unless, I think suddenly, it isn’t my dream at all.
    The mere thought sends a shiver down my spine, but there’s no denying that all the evidence points to that. If I were the true invader here, someone who burst into her world—her mindscape—without invitation, then control of this setting would come naturally to her, and I would be powerless to change things. Which seems to be exactly what’s happening.
    No, I remind myself. I’m not completely powerless. I did change this landscape, albeit minimally. And maybe now that I understand the rules of the place I’ll be able to do more.
    Reaching down into the water with all the force of my mind, I attempt to reshape the lake bed. It would be foolish to try to make the water itself support me, like she’s doing; one moment’s inattention might get me dumped back into the frigid lake. But moving dirt from one place to another offers amore permanent solution. So, gritting my teeth from the strain of the effort, I try to mold this dream as I would one of my own, superimposing my preferred reality over the current one. The task should require no more than a concentrated thought, but even though I strain my utmost, there’s no response. Then, just as I’m about to give up in frustration, a thin strip of earth begins to rise up from underneath the lake. Water falls back from its flanks as it breaches the surface, and a narrow land bridge takes shape. It’s only a foot wide and a few yards in length, and it’s so close to the water’s surface that ripples lap over the edge of it, but as I climb up onto it I feel confident I can extend it all the way to the black island, and once I do that, it should stay in place even if I get distracted.
    Finally I’m standing on it, swaying slightly on its wet, uneven surface, ready to get moving again. I look up to see if my quarry is still visible. She is.
    She’s watching me.
    She’s almost at the island, but she’s not running any more. She’s just standing on the water’s surface, her eyes, narrow and dark, fixed on me. The message in them is clear: how DARE you try to take control of my dream! Slowly she raises both her hands, like a conductor signaling an orchestra to start, and I know in my gut that something very bad is about to happen. Is she going to try to unmake my land bridge? I prepare to defend it (however on earth you’d do that), but to my surprise, the dream-construct remains steady beneath my feet. That’s not her target. The water surrounding me is beginning to move, however, and slowly it draws back from the shoreline, revealing the lake bottom. Fish are flopping helplessly in tiny pools as the receding tide leaves them stranded—
    Oh, shit. I’ve seen too many disaster movies to not know what’s happening. Or, more precisely, what’s about to happen.
    Desperately I look around for high ground. Or something I can climb. Or even something to hang on to, before the greatwave that she’s summoning hits me like a giant flyswatter. But there’s only the one low hill behind me, and even a small tsunami would sweep right over that.
    No trees in sight.
    No protection anywhere.
    The water in the center of the lake is starting to rise up now, and a foam-capped ridge is taking shape that stretches from horizon to horizon, blocking the girl from my sight. I can’t be sure of its position, but I can measure its rise as window after window of the strange citadel is hidden from my sight. The ground beneath my feet has started to tremble, and a cold wind gusts across my face. It’s coming fast.
    For one brief, crazy instant I want to stand my ground. I want her to see that her dream can’t scare me off, no matter how scary she makes it. Maybe she’d respect such an effort and tell me what’s going on.
    Yeah.