Call Down the Hawk

Ronan was dreaming of Bryde’s voice, but he was also dreaming of Lindenmere.

Lindenmere, Lindenmere.

It was a name out of a poem that had never existed. It didn’t sound dangerous.

Lindenmere, Lindenmere. It was a forest, or rather, it was a thing that was forest-shaped for now. Ronan had an idea that it had existed somewhere else for a very long time, and only now whispered its way into the world this time in the shape of a forest. It knew him, and he knew it, insofar that they could be known, both of them full of mysteries, even to themselves.

He was in love with it, and it with him.

Do you understand? For you, reality is not an external condition. For you, reality is a decision.

The room was a compelling contemporary painting, a textural experiment of disembodied crab legs, bright liquid guts, and a little bit of Adam’s and Ronan’s blood. It was beginning to stink of exhaust.

Fletcher’s eyes roved over all this. His eyes landed on Ronan’s makeshift lance.

“My flag,” Fletcher said.

Adam shut the door hurriedly behind him.

“The walls,” Fletcher said.

The crab guts were peeling the paint off them and the hoverboard had left several large dents in the plaster.

“The beds,” Fletcher said.

The sheets were torn and ruined.

“The window,” Fletcher said.

One of the panes had somehow gotten broken.

“A motorcycle,” Fletcher said.