Apprentice of the Rain

By Foster Haskell

Lowly art student Madeline Drake was dreading the day she'd have to hunt for a job, when an enigmatic man in a black trench coat invaded her dreams and introduced her to a world of sorcerers.
What if it wasn't just a dream?
What if the black Wizard was more than just the illusory conjuration of an overactive imagination? What if the spell he taught her actually works? Suddenly, all her apprehensions of making it in the art world faded into inconsequentiality. The Earth was no more than the broom closet at the Louvre. Her attentions shifted to finding her place among the wielders of the arcane arts and solving a beguiling riddle fraught with secrets no one should know.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foster Haskell
• Release date: Nov 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311525475

Foster Haskell

I have been a fantasy fan since I was born. I've been writing fantasy since fourth grade and cut my teeth on authors like Brian Jacques and Stephen R. Donaldson. In high school I found a more unusual muse: role playing games. Crack open the handbook to Dungeons and Dragons and they have whole chapters on how to build your own world and create conflict with interesting antagonists.Then in college fortune struck another unorthodox blow. I was afflicted with a particularly debilitating case of respiratory flu and was unable to speak for ten days straight. I couldn't go to class, couldn't see my friends, and was largely confined to quarters, quarantined for the good of others. Under these oppressive conditions I received the inspiration to write a novel. I had the characters floating around in my head, many with corresponding character sheets. So I drew up an outline of the first four chapters and set to work, uncertain if I would even have the will to finish, or if the phase would pass with the disease.Low and behold, this was the start of Apprentice of the Rain. I finished the first draft in 2000, figuring at best I'd print out ten copies to give to my friends. Fortunately I got enough positive feedback from professors and other writers to convince me that this indeed was worthy of publishing. Eventually I restarted the whole project, from scratch, this time with much higher goals in mind.Along the way I wrote a short story called “The Necromancer's Deception” and put it on Smashwords for free: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/348825

Book preview

Apprentice

of the

Rain

by

Foster Haskell

Apprentice of the Rain

by Foster Haskell

Copyright 2014 Foster Haskell

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book would not have been possible without the help and support from:

Ren Huijuan

Larkin Haskell

Phyllis Ring

Sean Sweeney

Cover art by:

Foster Haskell

Christopher English

Chapter I

Welcome to my world.

The words stared, mocking her, as if to say this all you got?

She stared back, coldly defiant. She raised her arms over her head and arched her back, hoping for a satisfying crack, but none were forthcoming.

Welcome to my world. One line of text on a perfectly white page, like a trail of footsteps on new-fallen snow.

She tore her eyes from the screen and gazed out the window. The trees wore brilliant shawls of red, yellow, and brown. Dusk had fallen and it was just dark enough for Madeline to see her reflection. She had long auburn hair, arrow straight, immune to styling. Her skin was lightly tanned, its shade never changed no matter how much time she spent under the sun. Her frame was angular and well toned, taller than the average girl.

Welcome to my world.

She deleted the title and typed: welcome to my terrifically boring life story that has nothing to do with my book, which by the way, is one of the most famous children's books in history.

She heard the doorknob turn and Ofelia came in. Hi Mad.

Hi.

Ofelia was Madeline's roommate. She had thick black hair and a chestnut complexion often envied by the snowbirds of the northeast. She led someone else into the room.

This is Peter, Ofelia explained, don't mind if we study here a while do you?

Not at all, Madeline replied.

Peter was a portly young man. P-pleased to meet you! he stammered, lumbering across the room and extending a hand.

Madeline shook it and choked back her unease at the wetness. She forced a smile across her lips.

Peter turned his attention. Wow, Ofelia said you were an artist. He gazed across the walls, decked with Madeline's paintings. She watched him critically. He stopped, pointing to one of her favorites. On the left side of the foreground a spiral staircase wound into the sky. A parade of birds, all shapes and colors, climbed up the steps on clawed feet. A blazing crimson sunset glowed across the horizon, dominating the top two thirds of the canvas. In the distance, a solitary bird spread its wings against the sky. The image bore a simple caption: open your eyes.

W-what does this one mean? Peter asked.

Madeline shrugged nonchalantly.

Peter squinted, studying intently. You can only see the flying bird when you open your eyes? He looked at her eagerly. No, its a trick! Is there something I'm not seeing because my eyes aren't open? he pointed.

Madeline stifled a laugh. No, there's no trick.

So, then, what's it mean?

Madeline locked eyes with him and shook her head deliberately, wearing a slight smirk.

Peter turned back. His face contorted for another minute, like a puppy trying to figure out a doorknob. So what are you doing next year? he finally asked.

I dunno yet.

You're a senior, right?

Yes.

So like, isn't art like, really hard? Like you have to be like Rembrandt to get anywhere?

Madeline shrugged. Rembrandt died in utter poverty, wise guy.

He turned back to the paintings. I think you're better than Rembrandt! he declared, giving her a grin.

Madeline chuckled. Thanks chief.

Ofelia says you're a dancer, too?

She looked at him sideways. You writing my biography?

His cheeks flushed pink and his stature melted. No, I just asked Ofelia to describe you, he mumbled.

Yes, I dance.

That's cool. What kinda dance? he dared.

Classical ballet.

Oh, he said blankly. Well, um, I hope you get...um...

Madeline smiled. Why don't you start your studies big guy?

He nodded and scampered to the other side of the room as fast as his oversized body would allow.

The rest of the night was uneventful. Madeline contended with her paper, resisting the urge to transform it into a manifesto on why tenure should be abolished. Peter and Ofelia discussed neurons, dendrites, and the sodium-potassium transport chain.

∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆

Madeline found herself in class. The lights were off and the Cheshire Cat sat next to a projector at the room's center. He was not a cartoon, he was a perfectly realistic black panther with shiny satin fur and glittering yellow eyes, his head level with hers even when sitting back on his haunches.

The projector clicked and whirred. A fiery image appeared on the screen, showing a warped figure cowering under a blood red sky.

The cat spoke without moving his mouth. Here we have 'The Scream' by Edvard Munch, 1893. The epitome of twentieth century German expressionism, characterized by bright colors, distortion and exaggeration. Great emphasis is placed on emotional impact, while most elements of realism are discarded entirely.

Madeline scribbled in her notebook.

The inspiration is thought to have come from the eruption of Mount Krakatoa in 1883 which darkened the skies all over the world. The artist recounted this experience in his diary and in a poem he wrote on the picture's frame. How many of you can invoke a volcano?

A number of hands went up around the classroom. Madeline looked, counting them.

The projector clicked and whirred.

Trompe-l'œil. A French expression meaning to trick the eye.

The image was the view from a window. The window frame was rendered with photo-realistic skill, and a hazy landscape filled the area beyond.

The use of forced perspective gives the illusion of depth. This is often done with a dose of the ironic, as art cannot have depth with only two dimensions. This theme was often explored by various forms of modernism. The moral of the story?

A girl answered. Don't trust your eyes.

Correct, the panther nodded.

Madeline made a note.

The projector clicked and whirred.

The Mock Turtle, the Cat said.

Madeline immediately raised her hand.

Miss Drake?

He represents the educational system. He speaks in nonsense, referring to underwater versions of academic studies. He makes a pun about the students being in a school of fish, implying they are all followers, sheep, forced to conform. But the system failed and he was unable to cope with the real world. He is left in perpetual melancholy, longing for the days of artificial structure and routine.

Well done, the great black panther bowed, his eyes now glowing green.

The projector clicked and whirred.

The next image was black and white, drawn on a wide frame. On the far left a tessellating pattern of birds changed as the eye scanned to the right. The birds lost their lines, the edges rounded, then hardened, forming a plane of interlocking cubes. The cubes in turn grew ledges and stairs, becoming a city. The blocky buildings altered further, taking on more modern European shapes, culminating in a Gothic cathedral with a bridge over the implication of water. Finally, the bridge ended with a watchtower, doubling as a rook on a chessboard at the far right.

The Cat continued. M.C. Escher did many such metamorphosis pictures. He looked squarely at Madeline. When the semester ends, what will you become?

The room went dark except for the eerie orange eyes.

You're mad, Madeline replied flatly.

No, my reality is just different from yours. The grin broke across his face, widening comically into a bright crescent moon full of teeth.

∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆

Madeline woke up early for her 8 a.m. figure drawing class. She went through her morning routine under a cloud of groggy haze before heading out. Breakfast helped, especially the coffee, but she still wasn't all together when she reached Williams Hall – that was the official name – but to most it was just the art building, an ugly converted warehouse made of bricks and corrugated steel. A collection of student’s sculptures posed out front. Most of them were modern or abstract, adding to the other-worldliness of the area, as if this little patch of campus belonged to a different planet.

She went inside, welcomed by the barren concrete floor and familiar musty odor. She passed a giant spider web, complete with spider, all made of copper pipes. The sculpture studio took up all the space on her left, while thin plywood walls formed the drawing and painting studios on her right. She ducked inside one of the only rooms defined by solid walls: the 3D lab. A nucleus of six computers was bunched together in the center, bound with bundles of nerve-like cables.

Someone sat behind the monitors. At fist, Madeline could only see his hair, fine and blond, almost long enough to tie back, swept back to form a crescent moon shape around each ear. As she circled the room his well-muscled arm came into view. Another few steps and she saw his face: piercing green eyes and a jawline sharp as a spearhead.

Hey, he said without looking up.

Hi Ed, she walked around him to look over his shoulder. A myriad of wire-framed objects filled the screen. You coming to class, or you gonna work on this? she asked.

If I don't come to class Armando will look for me in here.

True. She looked at his storyboard on the wall, titled: The Fantasy Football League. The first row of sketches were the players. A Medusa was the quarterback who launched the ball with her bow. A multi-headed Hydra and Cerberus were labeled linemen. A Centaur was the wide receiver racing a Minotaur playing safety. Pegasus and a Harpy were simply noted as special. The next row of drawings showed how the play would unfold, complete with camera angles and action lines. To Madeline's eyes it was one third football game, one third video game, and one third Looney Toons.

I caught another one in my bird trap, she said grinning.

Oh yeah? Who? Ed looked at her for the first time, his eyes bright.

Ofelia brought some guy over to study. He just sort of stared at it, wondering if there was some trick he missed.

Excellent, Ed laughed. I need to make a picture like that someday.

Definitely. Except no one ever comes to your room.

You do.

I won't get caught in an art trap. Madeline's tone darkened. Is Steve still mad?

He'll get over it. Ed was on the martial arts team and was particularly adept at Bagua, an evasive, high-mobility style based on eight animals from Chinese mythology. One day he decided to investigate the boxing team. Steve, the captain, being a mature and open-minded individual, declared that Chinese martial arts were fruity and impractical. So Ed stepped into the ring with him.

What followed was sheer humiliation. Ed flowed around the ring like a ball of mercury and Steve was unable to land a single blow. Then, like a cat who'd grown tired of playing with a wounded mouse, Ed issued the coup-de-gras. He waited for the predictable lunging haymaker, then with graceful effortlessness he grabbed Steve's wrist and tossed him under the ropes. He spilled out of the ring and onto the floor below, amid the whooping laughs of disbelief. Ed hadn't intended to embarrass them so thoroughly, but the brazen disdain for outside thought had forced his hand.

You think the rumors are true? They'll hunt you down for it?

No, Ed snorted.

Madeline didn't think so either.

There's still an open invitation for you, Ed smiled.

Eh, I dunno.

It'll help your dancing.

Yeah, I know, but...

"Come on, it basically is dancing if you don't spar," Ed urged.

What's the point if you don't spar?

Ed shut his eyes and pressed his palms together. The union of spirit, mind, and body.

Madeline gave an unimpressed huff.

Ed returned to normal. No really, what have you got to lose?

Time? Blood?

Ed gave up with a subtle shrug.

Madeline shifted. You coming to class?

I’ll be there in a second, you go on ahead.

OK. I'll set up your easel.

∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆

After drawing class Madeline made her way to Wingate Hall, a drab cinder-block building with all the visual appeal of a bomb shelter. The professor continued his inane lecture on Lewis Carol and Madeline felt her blood slow and her brain congeal. Eventually he split the class into small groups for some assignment she hadn't listened to. The other students discussed around her:

OK, so we're supposed write up descriptions of what these characters mean. So, the White Rabbit, adulthood, who wants it?

Is the rabbit hole some kind of birth analogy?

I, uh, haven't seen that anywhere, but it could be. How 'bout you explore that in your write-up?

Sure.

OK, who wants the Caterpillar? He's easy.

I'll take him.

Yeah, you're the least mature so that'll do.

Hey, you go to hell.

Alright, Mad Hatter?

Does he mean anything besides mercury poisoning?

He's a stab at the absurdity of conventions, like English tea time.

I still think he's just mad.

They're all mad.

Not the Cheshire Cat.

He was the only one who knew it.

Didn't he say Alice was mad for being there?

The Cheshire Cat! Madeline suddenly recalled him from her dream last night. What did he tell me...? I'll take the cat, she offered. What will you become...?

Sure. What about the Griffin and Mock Turtle?

∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆

Madeline's mind required a certain amount of downtime per day, though she often wondered if it was just an excuse for sloth. Today's decompression consisted of drinking cocoa and surfing the web. She looked over at Ofelia, buried in her books, oblivious to everything outside the human body, her attention immersed in an ocean of bones and muscles while Madeline's relaxed on a desert island.

Just before two, Madeline got a text from Ed inviting her to work on their sculpture project together. Grateful for the company, she left the room and headed back to the art building. The sculpture studio was half brick and half plywood, dirtier than the others thanks to the rampant generation of sawdust, plaster, and occasional stonework. There was a makeshift workshop in one corner with a haphazard collection of hammers, chisels, and saws. A derelict assortment of power tools stood among the village of tables and benches, like rusty cranes hanging over a junkyard.

Hey, there you are, Ed greeted her with a stack of heavy cardstock on the table before him. I think the best way to do this is to draw the pattern on the stack then cut them out.

Sounds good.

I think these will have to go through the paper-cutter. How many sheets do you think it can handle?

Not many. She glanced at the shoddy machinery behind him. Can we put it through the bandsaw?

Um... Ed walked over to examine it. Maybe? It looks like there's enough space to turn the cards around. He eyeballed the width of the steel table. Yeah, that should work.

You sure it won't chew up the paper?

Well...no...but we'll test it first.

The test was successful; the saw cut smooth lines ideal for their purposes. They completed the seemingly arduous task of hand cutting seventy-two cardboard boxes in minutes, and with far more precision than they could have hoped for otherwise.

Aight, next step is to score, fold, and glue all these things together, Ed declared. Sadly, there was no machine for this job so they dug in with blades and rulers, constructing the boxes one by one, painstakingly sealing every side with glue, finishing each individual cube as pristinely as possible.

When she finished Madeline sat and thought, not knowing what to do next. The professor had instructed them to make a modular sculpture out of the boxes. She fiddled with them, stacking and arranging them in different patterns. Some were as organized as the Egyptian pyramids while others were scattered piles of debris. Her thoughts churned.

You got a theme you wanna run with? Ed asked.

Well, I got two ideas: order and chaos, which might be too easy, too cliché. Putting the orderly cubes into a disorderly pattern. I'll bet half the class has the same idea.

Not necessarily.

Or taking a model that is usually made of spheres and making it out of cubes instead.

Ed squinted in thought. "I'll tell you this much: I guarantee no one else thought of painting the boxes."

Madeline shrugged. Maybe. It's sculpture not painting.

As if sculptures aren't painted?

Well yes, but we're supposed to focus on form and structure, not color.

Bah. Paint away!

What if the boxes are ordered and uniform, but the paint is chaotic?

There you go.

Yeah I think I'll run with that.

And run she did. Madeline put the boxes in the most ordered pattern she could stand. It looked like a fort, perfectly symmetrical, with suggestions of walls and towers. Then came the fun part. She didn't paint them, but splattered them with color. She took bottles of red and black ink and used brushes to fling it. The color scheme gave strikingly high contrast. The red even looked like blood, adding to the fort motif.

Meanwhile, Ed had a different idea. He built his cubes of all different sizes, and placed the biggest ones on the bottom to form a foundation, like marble. As the structure ascended the cubes shrunk and were less solid. Some had missing sides or open faces like doors. Higher still and the boxes started to lose their forms entirely. Handfuls of two-dimensional squares hung loosely together as if the cubes had fallen apart. At the top of the sculpture even the squares were broken. Ed cut them into smaller shapes that floated above the rest. He accomplished the feat of weightlessness by sticking things together with a hidden skeleton of toothpicks. As a final touch he painted the insides of the cubes (where visible) with bright primary colors.

I'm impressed. Madeline offered.

I call it 'The Great Disintegration,' he announced.

Mine is...'Waterloo.'

Cute.

∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆

Madeline went back to her room and routinely finished off the day. She found herself staring past her computer, at nothing in particular. A website about the aesthetic deconstruction of cat gifs begged for her attention, in vain. She gazed at the paintings around the room, feeling indifferent to the emotions they were supposed to evoke. She looked at Ofelia, absorbed in directing the books and papers on her desk like a busy harbor.

Madeline sighed silently. She looked over her bookshelf, hoping for a novel to snare her eye. They did not. She looked back at her computer. She closed the cat article and brought up a list of movies to stream, but none of them piqued her interest. She looked at her cell phone as it slept on her desk. She looked at her tool box full of drawing supplies, but it was tight as a clam. Madeline gave up and got ready for bed with a bitter taste on her metaphorical tongue.

∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆

Madeline sat in lit class. The blackboard had drawings of the characters from Alice in Wonderland. The professor spoke with his seasoned lecturer's intensity, a military general prepping his troops for an invasion. Madeline looked down at the page and saw a colorful Thanksgiving dinner scene. When she looked up she was in the cafeteria, where a matching banquet was spread out before her. Students were excitedly snapping at the feast with forks and knives. An instant later she was walking back to her room. She strode down the hallway and came to her door. She opened it to see someone sitting on her bed, waiting for her. He was clad completely in black, from his polished combat boots to his pocket-encrusted trench coat, including leather gloves and elegant fedora. A tight black mask of featureless cloth covered his entire head. Over that he sported a pair of round mirrored sunglasses. Not a single square inch of skin was exposed.

Madeline calmly closed the door and sat on Ofelia's bed, opposite the stranger.

I'm here to show you something, he finally said.

Who are you?

The figure raised one hand, extended the index finger, and pointed to something behind her.

Madeline turned to the chalkboard. This was Ofelia’s message center, filled with notes to herself, appointments, due dates, and the like. Then her eyes caught the motion: a piece of chalk gently floated up. It slowly and meticulously spelled out the words: Vincent VonRain on the board, then replaced itself on the tray.

Madeline mused.

Magic is real.

Madeline laughed. Not a mocking or scornful laugh, but one of mirth.

Vincent turned up his palms and two tongues of flame licked the ceiling. Madeline reeled, her eyes wide with wonder. The mysterious man stood, silhouetted by the fluorescent light above.

Let me show you. Vincent offered his hand. Madeline hesitated, then offered hers.

The room changed. It grew and morphed from her small, cell-sized dorm to an enormous hall. The walls and floor were polished mahogany. Weapon racks lined all four walls, ranging from ancient spears to modern firearms. Black iron chandeliers hung overhead, laden with flickering candles.

Madeline blinked. Then she smiled.

Vincent spread his arms as if addressing a crowd. The weapons floated off the racks and began circling the two. Swords and shields, maces and hammers, rifles and uzis rotated around them in a silent dance, like a slow steel hurricane. Madeline wrapped her slender fingers around a quarterstaff as it drifted by. It slowed for a second before pulling itself from her grasp. The weapons stopped and replaced themselves on the racks. Madeline's eyes followed hypnotically.

Vincent held up one finger and said: Mutatio.

The red wood paled, brown leathers darkened, steel rusted, every color dulled as if weathering hundreds of years in seconds. Then the process reversed. A flood of red-brown revived the dead grays and moldy blacks. Every hue became a rich red-brown.

Madeline wandered towards the closest rack and took a hunting knife from its shelf. The blade, handle, and hilt were all completely wooden, as if carved from one single piece. She replaced the curious weapon and looked back at Vincent.

He pressed his palms together and breathed. A pair of feathery wings emerged from his back. His nose elongated, the sunglasses grew huge, and the jacket went from jet black to slimy green. He squatted down, completing the transmutation from human to giant winged frog. He flapped the wings enough to disrupt the air.

Madeline smiled awkwardly.

In an instant, the frog jumped to a stand, the wings drew back, and Vincent was himself again.

He held up two fingers and said: Potentia. He threw his hands up. In a cataclysmic surge of raw power, the walls roared into flame. The weapons fell inaudibly to the floor. Billows of black smoke obscured the ceiling and began to descend. The fire spread to the edges of the floor, advancing towards them like lava flows.

All at once the inferno rose upwards, inhaled by the ceiling, as if the sky tore off the roof and sucked it out. When Madeline looked down again the weapons had replaced themselves on their racks and the walls restored their brilliant hardwood shine. Just a slight twinge of smoke tainted the air, the only remaining evidence of the conflagration.

Wow, was all Madeline could muster.

Vincent held up three fingers: Spatium. He rolled his arms like a pair of charmed snakes and vanished from sight. Madeline looked. The hairs on her neck prickled. She turned to find him standing behind her.

He twisted his wrists again. Another copy of him stepped out from the first. Madeline blinked to make sure her eyes weren't playing tricks. She looked back and forth, every fold in the jacket, the shine on his boots, every nuance was identical. The two faced each other and stepped forward, merging into one again.

He held up four fingers: Animus. Madeline watched him expectantly. Are you asleep? he asked simply.

Lucidity hit her like a speeding train. Her whole reality crashed. This is a dream! screamed a desperate voice in her head. The hypnosis shattered. Yes, she said simply, her mind crystal clear. Suddenly she felt kidnapped, trapped in a room full of weapons, held by a man with no identity, blazing with supernatural powers, obliterating and recreating reality around her. I am asleep, none of this is real, her mind replied to the sharp bite of fear.

Vincent pointed at her. Then wake up.

I am lucid dreaming. She told herself. She shut her eyes. She imagined the man disappearing, being whisked away by a gust of wind, erased from her reality. She opened her eyes.

Nothing happened.

You're not real, she challenged.

Vincent's head thrust forth, blooming into a ferocious reptilian monster with a pointed snout full of teeth, bright yellow eyes, and a head wreathed in spines. The dragon roared Wake up! Madeline yelped despite herself, fell to her knees, hands on her ears. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! She threw her head back and screamed. The room was no longer solid. The rigid wood swam in a hazy, semi-solid wash. I'm asleep in my bed, none of this is real!

Madeline concentrated. With all her might she pictured herself in a grassy meadow, forcing out the fire-breathing monstrosity, the man in black, the room of weapons. She saw lush greens and bright sunshine. The wooden walls faded into glass, the sun broke through the ceiling, bleaching the cool browns. Grass poked up between the floorboards. A gentle breeze wafted through her hair as the Gothic hall relented.

Madeline raised her head. She sat up and gazed around a vernal glade. She was on a hilltop meadow with little islands of flowers waving blissfully at the blue sky. Hills covered with dense forest rolled along in the distance.

Vincent remained, though the dragon head was gone. He applauded, his gloves turning the claps into dull thuds.

"I am in control!" Madeline yelled triumphantly, springing to her feet.

Then she woke up. Not with a jolt, not by the sound of her own shouting, not bathed in cold sweat, she simply opened her eyes. Pale blue light filtered in from the windows. Ofelia was no more than a plant-like growth upon her bed. She looked at the clock. 3:51AM.

What the hell was that? A crazy man in a trench coat using magic? Right. She rolled onto her back and gazed at the ceiling. It was just a dream. She pulled up the covers and shut her eyes. She breathed deeply, letting the steady rhythm lull her. She laughed lightly to herself. Ridiculous. She let the blanket of blackness and silence envelop her senses, comforting her, soothing her back to – What if he's still there? Her eyes opened inadvertently, If I go back to sleep and he's there waiting for me? and flitted across the room. Oh get a grip. It was a dream, a figment of my wild imagination. Go to sleep. This time she forced her eyes shut.

∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆

Vincent opened his arms wide as if to say: Ah, glad you're back! They both stood in the wooden hall lined with weapon racks.

Madeline gaped in disbelief. You're still here...

He nodded.

But this is just a dream! she blurted.

He nodded again.

So, what, you're a wizard who controls people's dreams?

He shook his head. Just yours.

Why?

I want to teach you.

Teach me how to control my dreams?

No. Teach you magic.

In my dreams?

No. In reality.

Madeline stopped. Impossible.

Just watch. Vincent waved and a blue curtain dropped down from the ceiling, dividing the room in half. You can't see me can you?

No.

But if you could see infra-red you could, right?

She rolled her eyes. Yes I suppose so.

Put up your hand and look between your fingers.

She breathed, using the last of her waning patience, and put up her hand. She saw the curtain between her fingers.

"Now, use your hand and feel the heat."

Madeline's eyes narrowed. She waved her fingers as if grasping a toy-sized Vincent in her mind's eye, feeling where he should be. She imagined a multicolored CG image like she'd seen in the movies, white and yellow at the core where it was warmest fading to green the blue at the edges.

Now look.

Madeline gasped. Where her hand passed between them she saw a ghostly white shape, the figure of a man. It only stayed for a second once her hand passed, but subsequent gestures would refresh it. She waved back and forth, watching it brighten and fade with each swish.

Good. Keep it up, Vincent said.

He walked back and forth behind the screen. Madeline kept her hand and fingers moving, grabbing the image whenever it faded, tracking him as he went.

All the obstinacy evaporated leaving childish wonder behind.

You are using Potentia to see the heat. Excellent. This is your first step.

She dropped her hand and hardened her voice. OK, its still a dream, it seems we can both do anything in my dreams.

Well then, the curtain drew itself upwards, try it once you wake up.

Madeline smiled incredulously.

∆*Ω*≡*∏*≡*Ω*∆

She awoke to the sound of her alarm clock. This time it was 7 a.m.. Ofelia murmured something in Spanish and rolled over. OK, that was really crazy. Did I really just dream the same thing twice? She sat up wearily. Magic. Right. I must be reading too much fantasy. Then she caught something that made her whole body freeze: Ofelia's chalkboard. Neatly written across the dusty black slate were the words Vincent VonRain.

Chapter II

The interior walls of the drawing studio (sheets of plywood) were decorated with dozens of sketches, haphazard scrawls of raw black charcoal to the untrained eye. Tables scattered around the room displayed still lives made of brown paper bags, cardboard structures, and sets of glassware. A ring of easels formed a semi-circle around the room's relative center.

Madeline retrieved her and Ed's window-sized sketch pads from the closet and fitted them to two neighboring easels. Other students trickled in but Ed did not. Professor Armando walked through the door (gap in the plywood) a few minutes late. He was a soft man with short gray hair, his face lined with gentle wrinkles. Next to him stood a stocky, well-built man with a dark complexion. Sorry I’m late, he began, this is the class many of you have been waiting for. Attentions