Twin are the gates of sleep; 
men say that one is of horn, 
a ready exit for real shades;  
the other is white, of flawless ivory 
this way the dead send false dreams to the world.                

--Virgil, The Aeneid

Prologue

You will have noticed that the world has changed.

The change came upon us like a live thing, all sound and fury, much like all the others changes to which the previous centuries introduced us. I wonder if it was the same when some grimy innovator struck that first mark into clay. Did he feel the weight of all that was to come tumbling down on him? Did he imagine the golden bounty to be reaped from the recorded thoughts of the human animal over time? Could he count the terrible cost of the same? Could he see the myriad colors of the future?

I don’t think we’re much more clear about all that now. 
Change continues to baffle us, flowing in a mighty stream that lets the experts among us turn and look back along the track and say “Oh, yes. It was inevitable that all would happen thus.” Marvelous are the ways of hindsight. And yet, if we can raise our eyes to catch a glimpse of all that lies past the bubbling magic of the moment, to all the courses that lay open to this rushing stream of time, what terrible wonders might we see waiting for us?

I don’t know where we’re going, certainly. Whether it’s to a more beautiful or more cruel place, I can say only this: I was there in the beginning. I saw everything change. I stood across the border, with one foot in the future, and one foot in the past. I rode the crest of the wave, and listened to the voice of the waters.  I stood on the edge of the instant, and looked out at the courses that lay open before us... 

And the colors burned with the fires of creation.   

Chapter One: The World Below 

I formed the bowl first, watching the rich brown grain of the wood coalesce into a distinct shape, deliberately giving it a smooth texture rich enough to be visible. I’d always found it easier to work with vision first. Then the fruit, reds and oranges and browns fighting shades of green, a blurred collage sharpening into focus, the colors becoming distinct, crisp borders delineating shapes: some familiar, others not entirely recognizable at first glance.

I focused on the table next, the rough grain of the darker wood mottled with old stains and burn marks. I let the borders of my sight expand, viewing the entire three-foot diameter of the table, taking in the wooden tankard, roughly bound with metal, which lay beside the hands. My hands. Large and rough, ragged fingernails blunt and chewed, they looked and felt much the same as in reality. Those hands of mine fit the water-stained homespun encasing the large, muscular arms which connected them to a body similarly large and similarly muscular. 

Under my hands the sensation of touch came alive, and I could feel the splintery chill of the table. As my tactile sense stabilized, I felt the chair under me, and grew aware of the presence of my body and the positioning of my limbs, so different from their positioning and location in real time. This body mirrored the flesh I wore waking. It had been long since I had taken the trouble to resculpt myself, but every sense, as I brought each to life, felt more intense than in my usual reality, as always. 

I raised my head carefully, sweeping the room into existence as I viewed it, my gaze touching lightly the central fire pit with hood in which embers glowed softly. I tasted the air, full of smoke and sweat and the fading touch of roasting meat. Men sat, cloaked and muffled, with their heads leaning into the company at each table, or crouching over solitary plates among the few girls and young boys weaving between the tables, bringing food or carrying information. And with that the murmur and rustle of movement, conversation, the clink of dinnerware and hissed exasperation all fell into place around me and I knew that I had it. I dwelt in that place fully. 

I built it with the ease of long practice, but I still felt a familiar exhilaration as I realized that this “reality” had become concrete. I hesitated, wondering where I should go next, where I would take events. That’s when the door slammed back before a gust of chill wind and a man walked in, his cloak swirling around his feet, green eyes burning above the cloth muffling his lower face. 

Shock is too light a word for what I felt. You must understand that this wasn’t an ordinary dream. It more closely resembled a daydream in Technicolor, a dream absolutely real to every sensation, but crafted by my conscious will. Cast as the playwright, I made everything, kept it stable, moved each figure like a puppet master, and I hadn’t planned for that stranger to walk through the door. For the second time in recent memory he had invaded what should be the one place where I could feel safe, and his presence disturbed me no less this time than the first, for it had been a month of dreaming since he had first caused me to flee a world of my own making.

My jaw dropped as I focused on the intruder, jolted to my core. This couldn’t happen, shouldn’t be possible, and yet I could not deny the evidence of my senses as I watched him thread his way carefully through the clutter, heading straight for my table, ignoring the others I had placed there as if they did not exist. He seated himself carefully in front of me as I desperately tried to will him out of existence and failed miserably.    
 
The stranger drew the folds of cloth away from his face, jolting me, for it seemed that I stared into a slightly distorted mirror. “Be wary of Authority. Fear Jeshimon, his agents are everywhere.” His voice was even and, like his face, reminded me of my own. 

Thoroughly unnerved by what should have been a relaxing experience, a way to sharpen my focus and give myself comfort, I started pulling out, fighting a curious resistance that tried to anchor me into my constructed reality. As the scene fragmented, he remained disturbingly solid, though he retreated as if distance grew between us, and his voice faded as he diminished in size. “You need my help, son of the evening star.” 

The rest was cut off by black shadows, cold, wet air and the susurrus of traffic moving through the rain as the waking world rose up around me, and the dream, my refuge, my sanctuary, fell away from me in folds of color.