Chapter Two: The Name of Sanity

Clara had experienced dreams within dreams before. She once woke five times before finally rising to go about her day despite several dream attempts to dress and shower.

This was different.

It was midday when Clara woke next, and bright sunlight streamed into her room, staining the underside of her eyelids red. She woke slowly, ready to roll onto Marshal’s side of the bed, though she expected to find it empty and devoid of warmth. He was an early riser and she was most certainly not, especially on weekends. But as her arm spread across the luxurious sheets, her fingers touched cold metal.

Startled, Clara sat bolt upright, her eyes wide and her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. A new room surrounded her, but not the one she expected. A wide window filled the far wall. The thin curtain that covered it was barely able to contain the dazzling light spilling through. It illuminated stark white walls, floor tiles and ceiling panels.

A half-crescent of computer equipment surrounded her bed. One of the machines beeped in tune with her heart, its tempo increasing as panic closed icy fingers around her chest.

As her last awakening washed over her like a spectacular wave threatening to crush her body against the shore, Clara knew with the strange certainty of a dreamer that she still occupied the same hospital. She also knew that Marshal wasn’t waiting in the reception area to take her home, and she hadn’t hit her head or crashed her car to get here.

It seemed the hospital staff weren’t taking any chances this time. No sooner did the heart monitor begin to beep frantically than did a flutter of footsteps fly down the hall. There’d be no mad flight to the bathroom to see if she was herself again. Not that the trip was necessary; the monitoring equipments’ dark screens were polished enough to form an outline of her reflection.

She still had long red hair. She still had green eyes and freckles. And now she had a pair of bandages carefully taped to the lower portion of her right cheek. Clara knew without testing there were half-healed scratches beneath those gauzy dressings. And that was the most frightening aspect of this new awakening; dreams weren’t known for logical continuity.

What in the name of sanity is happening?

As the door burst open, an answer seemed to rise from deep within her. All will be well, it said. And had she trusted that she was still dreaming, she might have accepted the stray thought as truth.

But this didn’t feel like a dream. Every time she glanced at the monitors surrounding her bed, they offered the same readings. Even the sharp spike of her heartbeat remained regular. More than that, the clock on the wall refused to shift times. The light on the other side of the curtain remained constant. The floor and wall colors never changed, nor did the face of the concerned woman heading the group marching through the door.

Clara had read enough about lucid dreaming to know that none of these things made sense. Disjointed continuity was the first indication a person was dreaming. The words written on pages would be different every time they were read. The hands on a clock would jump across its face no matter how quickly it was checked. Even digital clocks fell prey to this dream logic. And while it was true that dreamers often filled a dream’s blanks by simply discarding the shifts in reality, questioning aspects of a dream usually caused it to crumble.

In the past, when Clara silently realized a discrepancy in her dream state, some of her dreams shifted to compensate. Once, she dreamed she was on her way to an amusement park in another country only to remember she had to work the next day. As soon as she thought about it, the dream became a race to return home before her alarm sounded the need to prepare for work.

“Jennifer? Are you feeling all right, darling?” the first woman to reach her bedside demanded breathlessly. Her feathery blonde hair and sky blue eyes produced a flare of jealousy in Clara’s chest.

“Who is this Jennifer?” she snarled, certain the next words out of the woman’s mouth would be, Ah yes… I meant Clara, of course!

Instead, the woman’s face crumpled with confused concern. She glanced over her shoulder at one of the other women who had burst into the room. There were four of them. The same three who came to the bathroom and a woman in darker clothing with a severe expression engraved on her face.

One of the familiar women possessed a short tuft of midnight black hair and amber eyes. She shook her head while the other, a tall woman with striking emerald hair, shrugged helplessly. The spokeswoman sighed and turned her attention to the monitors. A whispered conference followed, and the other two familiar women disappeared, leaving Clara alone with the blonde and the newcomer – doctor and nurse, surely.

“Do you remember anything prior to waking up in the hospital, Jennifer?” the doctor prompted. She was shorter than everyone else in the room. Much shorter. When she approached Clara’s bed, she mounted a set of stools so she could stand at eye level. Her hair was a shade of brown that could almost be mistaken for dark red, and her sideburns were longer than the rest of her hair.

“That is not my name,” Clara insisted, frustration exploding in her gut. The monitor attached to her heart began beeping rapidly again, which only increased her annoyance. “My name is Clara Sanderson. Didn’t you see it on my health card? Wasn’t I carrying my purse when I came in?” What injuries was she even supposed to have in the first place? Aside from fatigue and a bit of light-headedness when she stood up, she hadn’t experienced any negative symptoms.

The doctor and nurse exchanged a glance, and each of their expressions grew a shade grimmer. The doctor sighed and lifted a folder from a nearby table. She opened to the first page and held it where Clara could see. “Your name is Jennifer Carter. You’re sixteen years old, and you were admitted to the hospital several months ago by your parents. Do you remember?”

Clara’s mouth fell open. A photograph of the face she kept seeing in the monitors was paperclipped to the front of the form. Printed in careful letters on the adjoining lines was the information the doctor mentioned.

Name: Jennifer Carter.

Age: 16.

There was even an address and phone number, though the doctor closed the folder before Clara had a chance to comprehend them. There had been names for her parents too, but she couldn’t remember them now that the page wasn’t visible. She desperately wished the doctor would open the folder again so she could see if any of the details changed, but the request froze in her throat.

“Please,” she managed to stammer somewhat desperately. “I’m scared and confused. I don’t know where I am or how I got here…”

“Shh, Jennifer, it’s all right,” the nurse insisted, laying a hand on her shoulder. She squeezed gently, offering Clara the most reassuring smile she had ever seen. It might have managed to comfort her if she hadn’t been terrified half out of her mind.

“Some disorientation is to be expected,” the doctor added, her voice dry and lacking any sympathy. “Considering how long you’ve been unconscious-“

“Unconscious?” Clara interrupted, clinging to the first thing about this situation that made sense.

The doctor folded her lips into a thin line and regarded Clara for a moment in silent reproach, as if trying to determine whether this was the act of an upstart. Evidentially, she determined that Clara was sincere, because her features softened.

“I’m Doctor Theodora. I’ve been working on your case since you were admitted, but I’m not surprised you don’t remember. You were in something of a state when you first came in.” Doctor Theodora’s eyes grew distant for a moment. She drew a deep breath and released it slowly, shrugging as she did so. “Well, we can come to that in good time. The truth, Jennifer, is that you’ve been in a coma for at least three months. Possibly longer. It’s hard for us to measure exactly when it started.”

“What do you mean coma?” The words scraped Clara’s throat as they exited her mouth. She remembered having dinner with Marshal a few hours ago then snuggling into bed with him to sleep. How could she be unconscious for several months? “And why couldn’t you tell when it started? Shouldn’t it be pretty straightforward?”

Again, Doctor Theodora gave her a look that suggested she was dancing on thin ice. She sighed but gave Clara one last pass, apparently determining that her frustration was as warranted as her disorientation. “Not when Sparis Gelara is involved, unfortunately.” Having said this, the doctor wheeled a stool close to the bed and climbed onto it, indicating that this conversation would be neither simple nor brief.

“Sparis Gelara?” Clara’s tongue fumbled with the unfamiliar term. She read and watched enough medical dramas to know that most disease names were nigh unpronounceable, but she was pretty sure this one was made up.

A thin smile graced Doctor Theodora’s lips. “In common vernacular, it is more often referred to as the Staring Sickness.” The way she said this suggested she was exasperated with common people and their silly habit of simplifying things.

“Staring Sickness?” Clara repeated numbly, as clueless about this term as she had been about the other.

“Sparis Gelara is still a relatively new disease,” Doctor Theodora replied, choosing each of her words with care. “We’re still trying to determine the details of its various stages. In the early days, everyone believed that Sparis Gelara was harmless. Aside from rewiring some of the body’s physiological signals, it didn’t seem to do much.

“However, as it progresses, Sparis Gelara causes the infected to slow down. Patients seem to move through an ever growing haze, which makes it difficult for them to focus on the details of their daily lives. Left untreated, this effect becomes ever more pronounced until, at last, the patient spends most of their time sitting or standing still, staring into the distance. Hence the name, the Staring Sickness.

“I am sad to say that you were already under the effects of late stage Sparis Gelara when you were admitted to Saint Blisbane’s – which is the name of this hospital. Saint Blisbane’s was established to study the late stages of Sparis Gelara in hopes of discovering a cure. Thus far, we have been unable to prevent those in the staring stages from slipping into comas. Usually, the affected remain unconscious for several months before their bodies fail. But-“

“You woke up,” the nurse interjected, barely able to contain her glee. “You’re the first recorded recovery for a Sparis Gelara victim. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Which is why,” Doctor Theodora interjected, the warning edge in her tone suggesting she had better not lose control of the conversation again for any reason, “we have put you under close observation. We weren’t sure what side effects to expect when you first woke up. It seems that we will have to move memory loss to the top of the list.”

Clara wanted to insist her problem had more to do with a false identity than a lack of memory, but she worried how the doctor would react if she spoke again. She certainly didn’t want to end up in a drugged oblivion that would prevent her from contemplating her current predicament. And besides, even if she was Clara Sanderson, age twenty-three, she was still stuck in a hospital with no idea how long she had been here and no way to contact anyone she knew.

She was about to ask if the doctor intended to contact her parents when Theodora set a meaty hand on her knee. “Try not to worry too much right now,” she said, her voice softer than it had been since the conversation started. “You’ve been off your feet for long enough that movement is going to be taxing the next little while. Magic works wonders but… Well, it doesn’t work miracles. Not at this tier, anyway.”

Did she just say magic?

“Try to get some sleep,” the nurse added, gently pressing Clara’s shoulders against the bed. She felt just light-headed enough that she didn’t bother counteracting the movement. “I know it sounds silly when you’ve been asleep for so long, but it really is the best way for the body to heal.”

“If you’re feeling better in a few days, we’ll let you get up and move around,” Doctor Theodora added as she hopped to the floor and pushed the stool aside. “But for now, we have to take things slowly, build up your energy and stamina so you can resume normal activities.”

Again, Clara wanted to protest. She had never heard of anything called Staring Sickness. Nor had she heard of a hospital called Saint Blisbane’s. If she didn’t know any better, she would believe she was caught in the middle of some elaborate prank. But she was obviously in a real hospital. The monitors surrounding her bed were real, as were the attitudes of the doctor and nurses tending her. And the needle that put her to sleep the last time she woke certainly hadn’t been fake.

Whatever was going on here, it was serious, and Clara had no idea how she should react.

The nurse finished tucking her in and followed Doctor Theodora out of the room, leaving Clara alone with her thoughts. She wanted to yell for them to come back so she could ask what this magic business was all about. But she was relatively certain they would just tell her she misheard. After all, she wasn’t even the person she expected to be. And it was hard to argue about it when her face didn’t match her expectations.

Clara set a hand against the gauzy bandages taped to her cheek. Try as she did to summon details about the life of Jennifer Carter, Clara could think of none. As far as she knew, she hadn’t even gone to school with someone named Jennifer Carter – and she was under the impression that dreams tended to favor details the brain was already familiar with.

And if the form the doctor had shown her was accurate, what should she think about everything she remembered experiencing after the age of sixteen? What about Marshal? What about the small apartment they shared on the outskirts of Toronto? What about her job at the coffee shop and the manuscripts she was working on?

Had they been nothing but dreams?

~  *  *  *  ~

Waking became a thing of terror. Clara wondered constantly if she was dreaming – supposedly the first step toward taking control. But no matter how she poked and prodded her predicament, she could not penetrate the final layer of the dream.

But she had to be dreaming. She remembered her other life with too much clarity to dismiss it as fever dreams or fabrications of a dormant mind. She remembered, for instance, that Marshal was supposed to be working overnight. That coupled with her frustration over her most recent manuscript’s failures would have been more than enough to kick her brain into overdrive, at which point it was bound to conjure the kind of images she had witnessed since ‘waking.’ She’d experienced a fair share of strange dream sequences before; it was where she got most of her story ideas. But none had ever been this persistent.

During the day, Clara bit her tongue and endured the relentless onslaught of Jennifers the nurses threw at her. She had no human interaction outside their regular checks of her condition and delivery of meals, and things went better if she agreed with their story.

At night, when the nurses left her alone, Clara forced herself into uneasy sleep where a swirl of hazy, indistinct images swallowed her. There she ran through shadowed corridors, her heart pounding in her ears and racing in her throat as she dodged the cloudy figures following close at her heels.

Voices lurked in the deep niches of those spaces, even when the scenery became bright and beautiful. There is a way, they whispered, weaving in and out of the darkness, coming closer before fading away, though the speaker never came into view. Trust me, and I will get you home.

By the third night, Clara was fairly certain there was only one voice. She was also pretty sure it belonged to a woman. Who she was and why she stalked Clara’s dreams were impossible to guess. Clara wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t lost her mind. She half-believed she was part of some mad lab experiment designed to determine how easy it would be to re-write a person’s memory. As if she could be grafted onto another person’s existence with a scattering of fabricated memories and a few authoritative assurances.

But she was also desperate to get home.

So on the fourth night, when the voice whipped past her ears, Clara screamed into the vaults of her mind, How?

Her mind answered with pictures. The first was a bar, modern and familiar by most standards, except that several of its occupants wore swords strapped to their hips. The patrons were engaged in a disagreement they apparently hoped to resolve with their fists. At their center stood a man with dusk-dark skin and midnight hair. One of the other patrons charged him, but his fist connected with his attacker’s face, dropping him in one.

After a mere moment of hesitation, two more patrons charged the center of the circle. But their target merely swept to the side, driving his elbow into one attacker’s chest and his knee into the other’s gut.

He spun in a slow circle as both his attackers staggered backward, and Clara caught her first glimpse of his eyes. They were a shade of blue for which she had no name, and they bore an odd intensity. When they fixed briefly on her, they sent an odd shiver down her spine.

When the fight ended, a small heap of groaning bodies lay at the blue-eyed man’s feet. But as he marched from the center of the circle, Clara’s dream dissolved, disturbed by the nurses making their morning rounds.

The next night, she dreamed she was running from an attack in the middle of an unfamiliar mall courtyard. Screams and gunshots echoed around her as Clara crouched behind a series of still-packed crates.

Suddenly, the man from the bar appeared atop the crate stack. He knelt for a moment, fire burning in his intense blue eyes as he fired a shot into the fray behind him. Then he dove forward and rolled gracefully to his feet as he hit the ground.

Before Clara had a chance to react, one of his arms snaked around her shoulders, drawing her away from the crates and the shouting beyond. When her legs buckled, his other arm curled beneath them and he swept her off her feet, carrying her swiftly to safety. He was gone again before she could thank him, returned to the madness still consuming the mall.

Time and again, peril crept into her dreams and, like clockwork, the blue-eyed stranger appeared as if summoned. Once, he arrived at the entrance to a cave where monsters lurked, holding a loaded pistol and ready to shoot. Once, he materialized out of thin air with a longsword poised before him to block a blow that should have struck her. But always he disappeared before Clara had a chance to question him. He was as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp, appearing just long enough for her to spot him then disappearing the instant she moved toward him. The only consistency aside from his striking appearance was that trouble seemed to surround him.

By the end of a week, Clara understood that she needed to find this man in the waking world. As soon as she thought it, the voice rose from the depths of her mind and whispered, Yes, he can send you home.

I need something more than a face, Clara pleaded silently before her most recent dream could slip away. At the very least, I need a name.

It was on her tongue when she woke: Domerin Lorcasf.

Now she had to decide what to do with this new information – not that she had many options.

Clara propped herself against the pillows of her hospital bed and stared impatiently out the window, trying not to scratch at the IV line that still disappeared into the crook of her elbow. There was a clock in her room, the only way for her to measure time, and she often watched its hands circle its face.

Doctor Theodora arrived at eleven a.m. on the dot; she was not the sort to be late. She had nurse Jemilda, the blonde-haired woman, with her. Clara was now familiar with all three of the nurses who rushed into her bathroom the night she scratched her face open, but Jemilda was the kindest. Of all the hospital staff, she humored Clara the most, even refraining from calling her Jennifer when they were alone.

But of course, when Theodora was present, everyone bowed to her will. That woman was a force of nature.

“How are you feeling today?” Jemilda asked cheerfully as she crossed the room to begin noting Clara’s vital signs. She was no longer hooked to a bevy of mechanical monitors – thank goodness – but the nurses still noted her heart rate, blood pressure and temperature several times a day.

“Good,” Clara replied, her mouth suddenly sandpaper dry. This plan is madness, plain and simple. You’re going to sound crazy.

Find Domerin and go home, the dry dream voice countered from the depths of her mind.

Clara shook her head to banish the memory. Hearing dream voices in the middle of the day would be a manifestation of insanity. Yet a dry, rasping laughter seemed to invade her mind when she thought about it, answering, You could forget about him and stay here.

What could it hurt to say something? If nothing else, it would be nice to know more about this man who haunted her dreams. Provided he was real.

He is, the voice insisted. As real as all the rest of this.

Clara couldn’t tell if that was comforting. She still hoped these stray thoughts were just lingering fragments of her dreams. She raked her tongue across the roof of her mouth, trying to summon enough moisture to speak.

“I’ve had a thought,” she said as Jemilda drew the blood pressure cuff from her arm, interrupting the woman’s steady stream of cheerful but pointless chatter. “A memory, maybe.”

Theodora and her staff had spent the last week sternly encouraging Clara – well, Jennifer – to mention if she ever thought she remembered something from before the coma. Clara steadfastly insisted that her life before the bathroom incident was a blur, mostly because she didn’t expect anyone to believe her about the details she did remember.

“Is that so?” Theodora replied when Clara hesitated, leaning forward to express her interest. “Go on and tell us,” she added, her voice shockingly encouraging. Clara thought she noticed a hint of stubble spreading across the short woman’s chin, but she tried to ignore it.

“It’s not a lot,” she admitted, swallowing the butterflies that threatened to fly up her throat. “Just a name. But it seems like… I’m pretty sure it’s someone I knew.”

Both Theodora and Jemilda seemed to wait with baited breath for the revelation of this name.

“Who are they, dear?” Jemilda prompted. “Go on, you can tell us.”

It’s now or never.

“D…Domerin,” she stammered, tripping over the unfamiliar name. “Domerin Lorcasf?” She didn’t mean to pitch her tone upward at the last, but it happened anyway.

Both women stared at her. Then, as one, they burst into laughter.

Of all the reactions Clara anticipated – most involving straightjackets and padded rooms – this was unexpected. As the seconds ticked on and their laughter continued, Clara’s surprise shifted to embarrassment then to irritation.

What’s so damn funny?

She must have been glaring because Jemilda drew a deep breath and clamped her mouth closed. Theodora chirped a few more chuckles then reined herself in as well.

“We’re sorry, dear,” Jemilda soothed, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “It’s just… What makes you think you know Domerin Lorcasf?”

So he was real. Or had they laughed because she was talking about a popular fictional character as if he were a living person?

“I dreamed of him,” Clara replied, trying to remain calm. “The way you said I might about things from my past. It’s happened a few times. That’s why I mentioned it.”

The doctor and nurse exchanged a glance, and Clara could tell they were fighting to keep from laughing again.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Theodora muttered, which drew an angry snarl from Clara’s lips.

“Please don’t be upset, dear,” Jemilda insisted, laying a comforting hand on Clara’s shoulder. “Everyone knows about Domerin Lorcasf. And would like to know him personally. Most girls your age have a crush on him. I know I certainly did.” A hint of red crept into the nurse’s cheeks.

“I don’t understand,” Clara admitted, not wanting to ask if Domerin was real but still unable to tell who – or what – he was supposed to be.

Theodora’s shoulders rose and fell, suggesting a silent sigh. She swiveled her stool and reached for the remote that sat on the table beside Clara’s bed. With a tap, she turned on the TV. She only changed the channel three times before she seemed satisfied and motioned for Clara to look over her shoulder.

The program she had chosen was a morning talk show; Clara recognized the format. The host, who she couldn’t name, sat in a comfortable arm chair while three guests sat on a couch opposite. All three of them wore the same uniform.

With a jolt, Clara recognized the man sitting in the middle. This was the man from her dreams. He matched her memory exactly, from his dusky skin to his midnight hair and the intensity of his odd blue eyes. But what struck her more than the matching features were his long, pointed ears.

A woman sat to his right. Her long black hair was gathered into a pony tail, and her skin had an olive tint. To Domerin’s left sat a man with a short shock of ruddy brown hair and a silly grin. The volume was low enough that Clara couldn’t hear what any of them said, but the ambient buzz of laughter flowed from the audience as if to mock Clara further.

She blinked. Domerin was real. And he was also on TV.

Behind the guest couch stood a large screen. As the host and guests conversed, pictures flickered across it, each lingering for a few moments before fading to a new one. The first picture showed a city street littered with police cars and roped off areas. But the next picture featured Domerin. His back was to the camera, and his head tilted to one side as if he were listening for something. He held a longsword in his right hand. The blade was stained at one end with a dark substance that might have been blood or, perhaps, oil. The next was a picture of the woman standing behind a podium crammed with microphones.

Clara barely had a chance to comprehend what she saw before Theodora tapped the remote again. The next channel was a news station. None of the three people from the couch were on the screen this time, but the image hovering over the announcer’s shoulder matched the logo on all three of their uniforms. After a moment, the man and the logo disappeared, replaced by video footage of Domerin and a reporter. The reporter extended a red-tipped microphone in Domerin’s direction, and he started to speak. Clara still couldn’t hear the conversation, but she noted a streak of blood across the base of Domerin’s left cheek. A cross-shaped scar cleaved his flesh just above it.

She wondered fleetingly if he would be on every channel but, having proved her point, Theodora turned off the TV. “We’re glad you remembered something,” she insisted, wrapping her meaty fingers around one of Clara’s legs and squeezing as gently as Jemilda had squeezed her shoulder. “It’s a big step. But I’m sorry it’s not what you thought.”

“Domerin’s on the news every couple months,” Jemilda added, perhaps sensing Clara’s disappointment. “So it’s not a surprise you’d be familiar with him. But the chances you know him personally…”

Are not just slim. Jemilda didn’t need to say it. They’re non-existent.

But he was real; that had to count for something.

Clara sank back against her pillows. Speaking again would only earn her more ridicule, so she opted to remain silent. Jemilda resumed her cheerful chatter while she finished her check-in, and Theodora jotted notes in her folder without making eye contact.

After they left, Clara flipped through the TV channels, counting how many included Domerin’s face. It was only the news broadcasts and the talk shows. Those that didn’t have him in person usually featured photos of him and the two people who had been with him. Often, questions scrolled across the base of the screen proclaiming, What should we expect? and Should the Crown be doing more? Clara thought about turning up the volume to listen to the stories but decided against it until she cleared her head.

Domerin was a warrior. Based on his uniform, he probably worked for the police or military – which might explain why he always showed up whenever her dreams presented danger. It even made sense why she might need to go looking for him in order to solve her predicament.

If he was a celebrity, he wasn’t going to be all that difficult to find at any given time. But getting close to him… That was going to be the real challenge. And getting him to take her seriously – she didn’t even know where to start with that.

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