Most of my dreams are gibberish, but are none the less usable for that, since they operate in either an emblematic or a downright fazed, hophead mode--but occasionally a rare example of a fully realised narrative dream hits me. I've had half a dozen in the last ten years, of which two have actually led to the development of finished stories. This is the latest.

The weird thing about this one is the sub-Arthurian and clichéed fantasy background in which it's set. It represents a model of fiction which I would normally abhor and shun. What can I say? Park me on the Tube next to someone reading one of these novels and I would willingly poke his or her eye out. But when you dream it, it's a different ball game.

A young girl crossing a park sees a stranger addressing a crowd of onlookers. He speaks of his vast wealth and influence, and invites any of them to pit themselves against him in reckless and risky contests, saying that if they lose they will bind themselves to his will forever. The crowd considers him a common braggart, and there are no takers, but the girl catches his eye and recognises a sense of powerful evil. She quickly turns and hurries away.

The stranger follows her to a shop where she works. He hands her a coin in exchange for goods and bids her to look fully upon the image on the face of the coin. The young girl senses danger, and believes that the image is that of the stranger himself and embodies ultimate evil and power of control. She glances at the coin. Her head swims and she feels dizzy and averts her eyes.

The stranger demands the return of the coin, but she knows that, unbound as she is, the stranger cannot retrieve the coin by physical force. She clasps the coin tightly in her fist and flees from the shop. The stranger pursues her, but she draws strength from the power the coin possesses and manages to outrun him.

She runs to the mountains and finds a monastery where a novitiate mason has been given the task of carving a holy relief into the rock floor. Still holding tightly to the coin she bids the mason carve her likeness into the rock as the Queen of Spells. Although he is uncertain, he is beguiled by her beauty.

The mason works on her carving for three days, lying with her at night. Her power flows through him and into the rock and the carving which eventually takes shape. Still she holds the coin tight knowing that to release it would be to release evil into the world.

After three days and three nights the mason completes his task and her likeness, clasping a book of spells, large and bound in leather, with an ancient iron hasp and lock is revealed in the rock.

Meanwhile the coin in her hand has become transmuted by the heat of their love-making into a half-liquid congealed mass. She takes just enough of the plasma to make a single secret page of spells and pours it through the lock into the carved book. Then, exhausted, she sleeps. Her grip on the congealed evil in her hand loosens and it dribbles from her fingers, on to the rock, and evaporates.

When she awakes she feels enormous relief. She is free of the burden of carrying evil. Now that lies trapped in the book of spells her carved likeness holds. There is, however, a residual fear that someday someone will find the means to unlock the book and draw its dark secret from the stone.

EDITOR'S NOTE

I am, as you may know from my own dreams, one of those fantasy fans whose eyeballs Mr. Charnock would like to gouge out. I can't say "if this were my dream..." this time, because my interpretation hinges on Charnock's violent contempt for those outside his own literary clique.

It seems to me that the evil sorcerer in his dream nicely personifies his own arrogance. His anima, more sensible, knows it must be contained, and it is, through the combined efforts of Anima and Artist, or Love (both sexual and idealistic) and Craft (presumably in structuring fiction). Though maybe not Lovecraft; even a reader as eclectic as me finds him a hard read--all that sexism, xenophobia and ichor.

And yet... is the waking Charnock any better? Seems to me his venom leaks out pretty freely.

--Chris Wayan

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