Dreamlands by Scott Jäeger Page B

autumn and had, I deduced by the state of the now
budding trees, woken in Arkham in spring.  I pondered this predicament for an
hour before a fresh idea guided me to Miskatonic University’s library, which
naturally was shut.  I sat on the steps to watch a spiritless light herald the
day.
    At
precisely eight o’clock a fellow in a checked tweed suit arrived, his face framed
by round, wire-rimmed spectacles and a heroic white beard of a kind not in
fashion this century.  Offering a gruff “Good morning,” he opened the doors
with a skeleton key.
    I
hadn’t been in a library since my college days, and though it held no nostalgia
for me, I did recollect cross-referencing and the working of a card catalogue. 
It took me an hour to find a few written accounts of the place to which I had
traveled.  They mentioned the great cities –Celephaïs, Dylath-Leen, Ulthar– by
name, and called the world itself the Dreamlands.  I soon established these to
be nothing more than outlandish pulp stories however, and of little practical
use.  Through a bibliographic entry, I did discover a more serious study in the
Occult Room, an area sealed behind a locked door.
    I
came upon the bearded man scribbling on a pad of foolscap at an enormous desk
heaped with stained and dog-eared books, working counterparts to their primly
arranged cousins which lined the shelves of his office.  He glanced up, ready
to dismiss me for a vagabond, but paused for a closer examination.  Perhaps my
eyes reflected something of what I had seen.
    “The
early riser,” he chuckled.  “I expect to see no one at the library at eight
o'clock of a Monday morning except for the most dedicated graduate student, of
which I believe there to be three this year.  I am Henry Armitage, Head
Librarian.”
    “Sloan,
sir,” I said, “Isaac Sloan.”  I accepted his invitation to sit on a straight-backed
chair that would discourage all but the most committed seeker of knowledge.  “I'm
not a student at Miskatonic, Professor, but I have been conducting research here
and hit a bit of a dead end.  Apparently, your occult collection is segregated
from the rest of the library.  I need access if I’m to get any further.”
    “Ah
yes, the Occult Room.”  His brow furrowed along lines more used to smiling.  “And
what institution did you say you were from, Mr. Sloan?”
    “Northeastern. 
I’m a graduate of the Liberal Arts program.  I hope to continue on to an
advanced degree, once I can raise the funds, but in the interim I’m pursuing my
studies on my own.  The notice on the door to the Occult Room says that it is
off limits to the public.”
    “You
are correct,” he said, fiddling with his pen as if deliberating whether he
could continue his work while we spoke.  He wiped the tip on the blotter, set
it down, and folded his hands.  “Access is restricted to students with the
recommendation of a full professor.  May I inquire as to the nature of your research?”
    “The
Dreamlands,” I replied.
    “Hm. 
A rather esoteric field of study, although it is a common interest among morphine
addicts.”  This was, mercifully, a neutral observation.  “I tell them they can
find Coleridge in the regular collection.”
    “I
have journeyed to the Dreamlands, Professor.  I lived there for a time, and I
hope to return.  It is a real place.”  This I said as much for my benefit as
his.  “As real as Miskatonic University, as New England.  Do you believe me?”
    “Mr.
Sloan,” he replied, “as far as the occult is concerned, I never commit to what
I do and do not believe without a bottle of single malt handy.  What I can say
is that we have no end of folks trying to sneak in, or break in, to our special
collection.  Most are curiosity seekers, but we’ve also had thieves working on
behalf of private collectors, and other unsavoury types.  Besides the headache
of keeping criminals out, the documents themselves are dangerous.”  To himself,
he