courtyard of the inn was set with tables, and that the evening was filled with the scents of flowers in full bloom, and that already people were arriving and seating themselves outdoors for an evening meal. What they could not tell him was that the tables had been set since the arrival of the dock, while he and Moreen had lain 'asleep', and that the meal in preparation, like the last one he'd eaten here, was in hishonour!
But when at last the lovers left the clock and its door closed behind them, closing in the purplish glow of its extraordinary interior and leaving them in Ulthar's lanthorn-illuminated twilight ... ah, how de Marigny's `forgotten' friends in the dreamlands crowded to him then!
Now, time is a funny business in the dreamlands; in places like Celephais or Serannian it can seem to stand quite still, so that nothing changes much. But to dreamers from the waking world who go there only rarely, it often seems that many years have passed between visits. Or perhaps it is the attitude of the dreamer himself, for it must not be forgotten that the dreamlands are themselves built of men's dreams. De Marigny's attitude - his desire - had been to enter the dreamlands 'now', not in the future or the past, and so he and Moreen had arrived at a time little changed from when he was last here. In other words, dream-time had kept pace with his waking-world time: the friends he saw now had aged a year for each of de Marigny's years not merely an hour, and God forbid a century!
Grant Enderby was there and his strapping sons; his daughter, too, dark-eyed Litha, blushing as she thought back on earlier dreams. But she was wed now to a quarrier and had her own house close to her father's, and those had been vain dreams anyway for Henri was a man of the waking world, a tall ship passing in the night of the dreamlands. Oh, he had planned one day to build a villa here, in timeless Celephais, perhaps what dreamer hasn't? - but these, too, had been only dreams within dreams.
Then there were dignitaries from several local districts, some of which de Marigny recognized, and the fat inn keeper and his family - beside themselves with pride that the visitors had chosen this particular place in all the dreamlands into which to dream themselves - and finally there was the venerable Atal himself, who had been a mere boy in that immemorial year when the city's elders had passed their ordinance prohibiting the killing of cats. Atal, borne in by four young priests of the temple, reclining upon a canopied litter and dressed in his red robe of high office. His priestlings wore grey and were shave-headed, but their respect for the Master was not born of arduous ritual and service but more of love. For while he was undeniably the high priest of the temple, he was also simply Atal: which is to say that he was one of dreamland's greatest legends.
Deposited at the head of the rows of small tables - where stood a somewhat larger table - Atal's litter was tilted and part-folded to form a carved chair, where he sat beneath his gold-embroidered canopy while de Marigny and Moreen were ushered to their places of honour beside him. Then, after the briefest but warmest of greetings and introductions, a fabulous, sumptuous meal was served; and at last, when the throng began to eat and under cover of their low, excited chattering, finally - de Marigny was able to talk in earnest to the high priest of Ulthar's Temple of the Elder Gods.
'`I knew you were coming,' the ancient told him at once, almost breathlessly., 'You or Titus Crow or some other emissary of the waking, outer spheres. I knew it, for there have been portents aplenty! You know how the people of Nir and Ulthar fear eclipses? No? But of course not, for You are still a novice dreamer - though of course that is not said to slight you. No, for you've served the lands of .your dreams well enough in your time. Anyway, this fear of eclipses all dates back to my youth and is unimportant now; but in the past
But when at last the lovers left the clock and its door closed behind them, closing in the purplish glow of its extraordinary interior and leaving them in Ulthar's lanthorn-illuminated twilight ... ah, how de Marigny's `forgotten' friends in the dreamlands crowded to him then!
Now, time is a funny business in the dreamlands; in places like Celephais or Serannian it can seem to stand quite still, so that nothing changes much. But to dreamers from the waking world who go there only rarely, it often seems that many years have passed between visits. Or perhaps it is the attitude of the dreamer himself, for it must not be forgotten that the dreamlands are themselves built of men's dreams. De Marigny's attitude - his desire - had been to enter the dreamlands 'now', not in the future or the past, and so he and Moreen had arrived at a time little changed from when he was last here. In other words, dream-time had kept pace with his waking-world time: the friends he saw now had aged a year for each of de Marigny's years not merely an hour, and God forbid a century!
Grant Enderby was there and his strapping sons; his daughter, too, dark-eyed Litha, blushing as she thought back on earlier dreams. But she was wed now to a quarrier and had her own house close to her father's, and those had been vain dreams anyway for Henri was a man of the waking world, a tall ship passing in the night of the dreamlands. Oh, he had planned one day to build a villa here, in timeless Celephais, perhaps what dreamer hasn't? - but these, too, had been only dreams within dreams.
Then there were dignitaries from several local districts, some of which de Marigny recognized, and the fat inn keeper and his family - beside themselves with pride that the visitors had chosen this particular place in all the dreamlands into which to dream themselves - and finally there was the venerable Atal himself, who had been a mere boy in that immemorial year when the city's elders had passed their ordinance prohibiting the killing of cats. Atal, borne in by four young priests of the temple, reclining upon a canopied litter and dressed in his red robe of high office. His priestlings wore grey and were shave-headed, but their respect for the Master was not born of arduous ritual and service but more of love. For while he was undeniably the high priest of the temple, he was also simply Atal: which is to say that he was one of dreamland's greatest legends.
Deposited at the head of the rows of small tables - where stood a somewhat larger table - Atal's litter was tilted and part-folded to form a carved chair, where he sat beneath his gold-embroidered canopy while de Marigny and Moreen were ushered to their places of honour beside him. Then, after the briefest but warmest of greetings and introductions, a fabulous, sumptuous meal was served; and at last, when the throng began to eat and under cover of their low, excited chattering, finally - de Marigny was able to talk in earnest to the high priest of Ulthar's Temple of the Elder Gods.
'`I knew you were coming,' the ancient told him at once, almost breathlessly., 'You or Titus Crow or some other emissary of the waking, outer spheres. I knew it, for there have been portents aplenty! You know how the people of Nir and Ulthar fear eclipses? No? But of course not, for You are still a novice dreamer - though of course that is not said to slight you. No, for you've served the lands of .your dreams well enough in your time. Anyway, this fear of eclipses all dates back to my youth and is unimportant now; but in the past
Similar Books
