"Christ!" Tinker jerked, nearly twitching his bike off the road. Road, what road? Pitch dark and a mist coming in had slowed him to a crawl. No wonder he must have dozed off after miles of this. Damned if he could remember where he was going either.
This is nuts, thought Tinker. Where the hell am I anyway? He wasn't drunk and would've been able to tell if someone had slipped him a dose. Sure he'd had mild concussions, but never blackouts before now. Talking of which…
The headlight was fading fast and the engine began to falter. Tinker switched off the beam and the motor picked up a bit. There. Now he could see a faint light ahead and not too far. Just as well, the engine had started missing again.
Tinker made it to the driveway of a large house, then had to start pushing when the bike finally quit. What a gothic pile, he thought, parking the bike and catching his breath. The Vee was a tad over five-hundred and fifty pounds dry weight after all, and the driveway had seemed impressively long. Rocky Horror or what? Tinker mused. If a rouged-up pouf comes to the door in bustier and garter belt, I'm outta here.
The great door was part open and by its light Tinker noticed flanking stone sentinels. The nearest was an incredibly realistic gryphon, so superbly carved Tinker could make out each individual feather. He reached out a hand…
"That would be most unwise, stranger," said a cold voice.
Tinker stood six foot two in his sweaty socks but he was looking up into a pale, almost cadaverous face that emerged from a floor-length black cloak.
"Either you're Dracula or I'm bloody dreaming," muttered Tinker.
A shock of spiky black hair shook with silent mirth. "Which would my guest prefer?" he asked, ushering Tinker in with an imperious gesture.
Tinker caught his reflection in a mirrored hat stand. Sleep-tousled black locks, beard, and… Hell's bells! he realised, I'm starkers. On the other hand he was relieved to see the other's reflection too.
"Many sleep thus," said his pale host. "However you may have any attire you choose, Mr. O'Toole."
Tinker's reflection now showed a smart set of Langlitz leathers and Dayton boots. "That's Tinker to my friends," he said gruffly--true names shouldn't be bandied about anywhere. "Yourself?"
"Oh, I think you can guess."
Tinker could, unfortunately. Who else would occupy a castle in dreamtime but… well, the Dream Wight himself. Oneiros to the Greeks, who had a word for everything, Morpheus to the Romans, and way out of Tinker's league in any language.
"To what do I owe the honour, Lord of Dreams?"
"You lately assisted my youngest sister with… ah, a personal problem," said the man, who wasn't. "I wish to express my gratitude."
Tinker blushed, uncomfortable with praise. "Weren't nuffin," he mumbled. "It was just my lucky wish, Di Di did it all herself really."
They'd come into a reception hall, the whole place was like something out of Cocteau's "La Belle et Bett". The intricately carved walls virtually dripped ectoplasm, flickering candles chased scuttling shadows. Tinker wouldn't want to be here alone.
His host indicated three ornate doors. "Modesty becomes a neophyte mage," he said solemnly. "But you could have used that wish for your own ends—it would appear my family is in your debt."
Christ almighty, thought Tinker, not again. A wish from the Endless is worse than a curse.
The Dream Lord motioned him forward to the first door. "Few may choose where the royal road leads, fewer wake to find their dream come true."
Tinker looked askance at the door. He wasn't a game show fan, but go find a magician that isn't curious as a cat. He found his hands reaching for the handle and turning it. Just a peek.
"Jeez, a McLean wheel." A six foot silver ring rimmed with black rubber stood in the bare room. Kerry McLean, the Michigan madman—well, what else would you call someone who rode inside a monowheel with a polished alloy Olds V-8 engine in his lap? And what would you call a man who lusted after one of those monstrosities?—Tinker!
Tinker became aware of a faint humming and noticed that nothing was holding the perfectly poised wheel up. A gyro, he realised. Of course, that would stop "gerbilling", the nemesis of monowheels that tries to spin the rider under heavy acceleration and braking. The ultimate special, right here and road ready.
And a bloody sight more stable than me right now, thought Tinker. Desire urged his twitching hands to grasp the bars and claim this beauty for his own. He had to force them to close the door instead.
His long pale thinness was waiting. "It would appear your will is not a subject of my other sister," he observed.
Tinker looked at his shaking fingers. "Yeah, I guess, sooner 'roll-my-own' when it comes to kicks. "
The Dream Lord permitted himself a thin smile. "If you are beyond the material plane, you might be mindful of the next door."
Tinker shrugged, never let 'em see you sweat. He could handle this, only a bleedin' dream after all.
The door opened at his gesture and Tinker entered to find himself facing a full-length Victorian tailor's mirror on a wheeled stand. It wasn't so much in a room as a cave. He came closer stared at his reflection; it wasn't him. Only, it was: thinner, older, long and white of hair, taller somehow. He was wrapped in a full cloak that seemed made of shifting mist and sparkles, his staff was the lightning. Tinker could feel power beating on him as from an open tanning coffin. His reflection addressed him, the words ringing clear as hammer on anvil.
"Great am I, yet still to be.
The choice, as always, rests with thee.
Bow low the Fey and science despair
Before our works, if you but dare."
Tinker stared, eyes bugging out of his head. The big golden apple dangling within his reach--to be the Magus Supreme, power itself. It was to become a god.
A thin hand emerged, rippling the mirror like a stone cast into mercury. Its nails were mandarin-long, knuckles unscarred, gone the ingrained oil and calluses. Destiny reached out for him, trembling with potential. Men sell their souls for less.
Gasping, his back to the other side of the door, Tinker shivered from the effort. If it wasn't there to lean on, he would have fallen down.
A wan face regarded him speculatively. "What man resists the power of his own will? Either I lose labour or you have the makings of a mage without any aid." A long, pale finger emerged from his night-black cloak and pointed at the last door. "But are you really so pure of heart?"
The door opened on its own. Tinker was ready for Marianne Faithful peeling out of her leathers, he wasn't ready for…
"Jean!"
The tears were already on his cheeks as he lurched forward--as she threw herself into his arms. No ghost; solid, real, here and now, and in their old room. Like the bad stuff never happened, like it could be again, all of their dreams. She was his bonnie Jean, first and only true love, torn from this life like the child from her body. His child, dammit, and her too in love with a roving gypsy to trap him into marriage. He'd had to lie low for a bit and never knew till it was too late; not too late to feed that fucked-up abortionist ground glass though. Never really been anyone else, nothing beats first love.
Tinker held her out at arm's length, barely able to breath. Jean, still twenty-one and fresh as a bright May morning—unfortunately he was September, okay, October, now. In her clear young eyes love brimmed over, but it was his own reflection Tinker saw the clearer.
He backed away, each step an agony of regret; it was like walking against a river of his own blood. Jean's arms reached out from the past, hurt and confusion suffused her, but Tinker knew what he had to do. He made it to the door, but for the life of him couldn't close it in her face.
The Dream Lord gave him a strange look. "Orpheus himself could not have done that. Methinks my works are all overthrown and twixt sleep and awake but a void. Is there naught within my power to give you?"
Tinker strove to compose his face, and it took a couple of tries before he could master his voice. He got on his toes and whispered in Dream's ear, never once taking his eyes off Jean.
The lifeless face broke into a smile of understanding and the Dream Lord nodded quietly to himself.
#
Outside dawn was just breaking. Tinker absently-mindedly stroked the gryphon as he left and was rewarded by the rough lick of a stone tongue.
The Super Vee started first kick and its headlight pointed the way home. Tinker waved goodbye as the Dream Lord raised a long, pallid arm in salute. By him stood a radiant Jean, and at her side Tinker—twenty-five years young and grinning like a bastard. Youth is so shamelessly wasted on the young.
Tinker rode away into the sunrise of a waking world. Sadder, wiser, but never too old to dream.