Alberon smiled, and the gold in his eyes spun and sparkled like fireworks.
‘Dream is a river,’ he went on, ‘that runs through every one of the Worlds. It shows us reflections of our lives. It carries them downstream. And sometimes those dreams become islands; and sometimes they become whole Worlds, bright and insubstantial as a bubble in sunlight.’
Fay tried to close her eyes; to escape Alberon’s irresistible charm. But the dance, and the lights, and the feel of his hand on her waist and the nape of her neck kept her in his power, and the story kept unfolding.
‘The Queen had powers of her own, and glamours to rival those of the King, and her dreams were equally powerful, building a wall between her and the life she shared with him. And in time, she came to believe that the dream-world she had built for herself was the truth, and her real life nothing but fantasy. She sought out ever stronger draughts to help her reach that joyful place. And she spent her days and nights in Dream, sleeping ever more and more, until at last she vanished from the real world altogether, and was lost – for ever, they thought – in that world of her own creation.
‘But the King had finally understood his part in his wife’s disappearance. He was cruel, and selfish, and bad, but he loved her, and was deeply ashamed. And so he went in search of her, combing the islands and skerries of Dream, hoping to find his lost Queen among all the flotsam of the Worlds. But when at last he found her – after many years of searching – she did not recognize him at all, and simply retreated into her dream, so that the King was left alone, grieving; inconsolable.’
Alberon reached to touch Fay’s hair, and continued: ‘And yet he waited, hoping that one day she would return to him. Meanwhile, in her dream, the Queen fell in love with a man of the Folk, and had a daughter whom she loved more than anything she had ever loved in the waking world.’
‘It wasn’t a dream,’ Fay managed to say. ‘Daisy was real. So was Allan.’
‘Of course they were,’ said Alberon. ‘Anything that can be dreamed is true. And yet they belonged to the river, and the river took them back in the end. And so the Queen was left dreaming, alone, without her glamours or memory, while over the water, the King looked on, powerless to reach her. Until one day, in his despair, he went in search of the Oracle. The Oracle was old, and filled with ancient malice and hatred. It dwelt in the heart of World Below in a roaring cradle of fire, but it was cunning, learned, and wise, and it was bound to tell the truth to anyone who petitioned it.
‘The road to the Oracle was long and filled with untold dangers. And yet the King endured them, and fought his way to the Oracle, to ask how the Queen could be released, for her dream had become a nightmare.
‘The Oracle smiled from its cradle of fire. Its face was all age and all malice. Its lips were sewn shut, and yet it spoke to him in a baleful whisper:
‘“To free your lady,” the Oracle said, “you must find the madcap mushroom, which grows in the caves on the shores of Dream, under the cliffs of Damnation. Correctly used, it opens up the doors between the Worlds, and will allow your Queen to pass between the realms of Dream and Waking. To reach the place where madcap grows, you will have to take the Night Train to the Kingdom of Death, where the Hallowe’en King, on his bone-white throne, watches the Worlds through his one living eye. But those who enter the Kingdom of Death are seldom allowed to leave it. The Hallowe’en King demands a price – be sure you are willing to pay it.”
‘“More than willing,” said the King. “I thank you for your wisdom.”
‘The Oracle gave its twisted smile, and sank back into its cradle of fire. “I speak as I must,” it told him. “And I cannot be silent.”’
Two
Fay listened to Alberon’s story as the room circled faster and faster. Her head was filled with colours and lights; her stomach with barbed wire and butterflies. The scent of roses was maddening; it filled the air like a choking rain. And still they danced on, the King leading her around the room with a strong hand in the small of her back, his dark eyes never leaving hers.
She wanted to tell him to stop, but the words somehow refused to take shape. Around her, the musicians, the guests, the tables laden with glassware and sweets had taken on a nightmarish cast. She felt both numb and excruciatingly sensitive to everything; even the fabric of her gown seemed to be filled with briars and thorns.
She clutched at Alberon’s coat. ‘Please.’
He smiled, and the dancing lights in his eyes reflected the gleam of his jewelled crown. ‘Are you unwell, my Lady?’ he said, guiding her towards one of the chairs of gilded coromandel. ‘Drink this. It will restore you.’ And he handed her a goblet of wine that sparkled like a cup of stars.
Fay was just about to drink when she realized the trickery. She put down the wine untasted, and, still distressed and disoriented, said the first words that came into her mind, the strange words of the tiger’s song: ‘My plaid shall not be blown away.’
Alberon flinched. ‘Who taught you that?’
‘I forget who taught me,’ said Fay. ‘But there’s wisdom in an old wives’ tale, and magic in a story.’
Alberon smiled. ‘You are indeed wise,’ he said. His discomfort had lasted no more than a moment, but his eyes were still cautious. Fay took a breath and felt her dizziness begin to abate. The words of the song made no sense to her and yet, somehow, they had power.
Alberon said: ‘I hope my tale has not caused you any kind of distress. Believe me, it was not my intention to make you uncomfortable in any way.’
Fay returned his smile. The interruption, brief as it was, had given her time to recover. She touched the strap of her backpack, which she had been clutching throughout the dance. It’s real, she told herself. I brought it here from London.
So this was why King Alberon had tried to take her pack away. It was a reminder of who she was. It was her only link to her world. Once more she thought of the words of the song – My plaid shall not be blown away – and thought that maybe she knew their meaning, after all.
Summoning all her composure, she said: ‘Not at all, Your Majesty. It would take far more than a tale to make me doubt my sanity. But please continue with your enchanting tale of the Night Train, and the Hallowe’en King.’
Once more Alberon smiled, and his eyes gleamed in appreciation. ‘As my Queen desires,’ he said. ‘I live to serve at her pleasure.’ And, taking his seat beside her, he continued his story, while around them the torchflies flickered and burned, and the dancers spun ever more merrily.
Three
‘The easiest way for a living man to board the Night Train is to die,’ said Alberon with a slow smile. ‘But the King was not ready to give up his life, and so he sought another way. The way to all the Worlds is Dream, and Dream is the mother of Story, and it was through stories and dreams that the King found a way to fulfil his desire.’
Alberon sipped his wine, and went on: ‘The King knew many old stories and songs, and his voice was renowned throughout the Worlds. Songs can open doors, he knew, and stories make connections. And so he went into World Below and sat beside the railway tracks, and sang a song of love and loss, and waited for the Night Train.