Anatasia: The Dream Chronicles

By Ben Rawlings

England, 1872.
On the eve of finishing his twentieth masterpiece, acclaimed author Charles Lewis seeks out a new book in which to record his story. Only, no ordinary book will do – after all this is possibly his best work ever. No, the book has to be special, unique. Like the book with the old leather cover. The one covered in delicate and intricate engravings. The one with the big crimson stone strapped around its binding...

But Charles will soon find that this book isn’t empty. There is a message inside, a message from a faraway land, from a civilization in need of saving... and they want him to help.

And when Charles awakens to find himself standing in a forest of towering trees and bizarre animals he could only imagine, in a valley that seems nothing short of a paradise, could he finally be dreaming for the first time in his life? Or could this be more than just a dream? Could there be more to this strange land than first meets the eye?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Rawlings
• Release date: Mar 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311508829

Ben Rawlings

Born in 1986, Ben Rawlings grew up in the suburbs of Melbourne. He has studied many things, from woodwork to animation, but has always had a passion for storytelling. He began writing short stories during his school years, but moved on to novels at the age of 21. Sadly, many of his works laid unfinished or untouched for several years until he finally picked up the proverbial pen in his late 20’s and brought them back to life.

Book preview

Prologue

A prison.

That’s what it’s become, a prison.

As I sit here in my chamber overlooking an ocean of white, beyond which is the world I am so denied, I finally admit myself confounded, unable to wake up. I realise that, despite my many convictions of detest for the drab society of monotonous existence I have long since left behind, I miss my life. Whether it be the long walks in the county park or the obtuse dialogue at the local dinner parties, I yearn companionship... mere conversation.

Alone on this monochromatic island I have come to call the ‘Sand Castle’, I find myself lonely, dejected. My long walks around the vicinity and many hours gazing out over the perpetual hills of cloud that float below leave me with a feeling of discontent. There is little to see up here, as the sights are few and far between.

Twelve islands, counting my own. So many times I have counted and every time it is twelve, all encased in a circle of ice-capped mountaintops that encompass the horizon, floating inanimately in an ocean of clouds, a twirling white mist.

What these islands are, I am not sure. Perhaps the abandoned remains of a long past civilisation? But what I can see, to some degree, is that they are each and all the same. A large, and particularly steep, sandstone pyramid, the top of which has been removed to reveal a small flat community of houses and passageways, encased behind a steadfast border of high stone walls and tall corner towers like some kind of mighty citadel of an ancient and lost culture. Each house, each tunnel, every bridge; all carved from the one immense stone block.

During my many months of study here, I have measured almost every inch of this place and can state with almost full certainty that it is a perfect square, approximately one hundred yards in length. Where one finds a solid stone block over a hundred yards in length and breadth (and who knows how high!) I can only imagine, even in this peculiar world.

From the size, shape and design of the many doors and passages carved into the stone, I can surmise that the prior inhabitants were no doubt human, or some variation of, but this only leaves me wondering. Why would one leave such a place of grandeur after the centuries of work it must have taken to build? I can think of many reasons, especially in this strange land, to theorise that an attack may have taken place, but with such a strong vantage point and the evidence of great numbers of residents on each of the islands, could the occupants not have fended off such an offence? The power of the attacker – or attackers – scares me, even in my deepest thoughts, as I believe I know what, or rather, whom it was, and if the occupants of such an expansive community of fortifications could not fend off this force, then what hope have I?

Using the various instruments left behind by the previous occupants, I have been able to source food, not that it has been necessary. Their stores of fruit and grain have been well preserved in the large airtight pantries in the lower sections of the residence. They were no doubt well prepared and highly organized, as I can only assume these were rations for the entire people of this fortress; a figure of which I have concluded to be no more than a hundred or so.

However, due to my genetic carnivorous needs, and perhaps a lack of ancillary entertainment, my desires have led me to my meagre and often frivolous attempts at hunting the small rodents – mostly rats, the nest of whom I am yet to locate – I find scampering the halls. Nevertheless, these delicacies are often rare, and I ensure I pace myself enough not to rid the entire island free of this food source.

During the sunny afternoons, I often find myself walking through the gardens, two lower areas on either side of the island in which a fantastic array of exotic plants grow, now untamed, amongst an entangling maze of man-made rivers and ponds. The still water in many of the ponds has turned green with algae, but the flowing water of the small streams has been my main supply of fresh water so far. Where the endless supply of water comes from, I don’t know. As of yet I have only determined from deep within the temple itself – perhaps some kind of spring – but nonetheless, I have been eternally grateful for its existence. The previous occupants of this place where truly masters of engineering.

And as I venture around the vast stone fort, I have found that, no matter where I am, I can always hear the pounding drone as the water from these aqueducts cascades wildly over the sides of the temple in numerous waterfalls of colossal size, pouring down through the clouds into the unknown depths of the world below.

But most amazing of all are the nights in this place, when

the sun finally sets beyond the distant mountain ranges and the whole place becomes illuminated with dazzling lights. Along almost every walkway and footpath around the temples, there seem to be some sort of light pole system of brilliantly glowing yellow orbs, powered I can only guess by electricity of some kind. How and where these people managed to obtain such sophisticated technology is beyond me, but peering out over the towering walls on the highest of the walkways, I can see that my island is not the only one with such radiance; every one of the giant stone temples comes alive with glimmering light.

And in the dead of night, when the lights all begin to fade, the only remaining light besides the twinkling stars above seems to be coming from the tall square tower on the far side of the temple, a building that resembles a blank sandstone clock tower and the highest point on the entire island. An alluring crimson glow echoes from within the small windows at its peak, the only apparent entrances in and out of the building, and I find myself longing to know what the cause of the lustrous red light is. So far, I have found no other entrance inside, so the light remains a mystery.

Now, as the clouds outside begin to fade and blend with the darkening grey horizon, I see her face, flashing before my eyes. Not an hour goes by that I don’t see it. Her long flowing hair, dark like a moonless night, or her softly bronzed skin from the blissful rays of sun she so enjoyed. But mostly, her eyes. Those deep pools of jade, flecked with sparkles of gold and hazel, like a forest tarn reflecting the twinkling night sky.

Oh, how I miss her. Many times I have debated with myself whether I made the right decision returning here, leaving my other life behind, but I am surer now than ever that I had no other choice. This is the course my life was to take. I do not fight it, I only wish I understood it.

I apologise. By now I am sure I have you lost and confused in a world you are in no way familiar, so I suppose I shall start at the beginning.

This is my story.

And ironically, whereas most books comprise a story, this is a story about a book. A special book, to be exact. A magical book. The Looking Glass to my Wonderland. What follows is a collection of my time and experiences – or, perhaps more accurately put, as I am at a loss to explain it otherwise, a chronicle of my dreams – in a world I am now all too accustomed to, a world I have come to call...

Anatasia.

And so my story begins...

Part 1

The Dream

Chapter 1

October 4, 1872.

The ink ran out just as I finished dotting the last line. Replacing the quill – a lavishly self-indulgent, yet still, I must admit, aesthetically pleasing peacock plume I inherited from my father – back in its pot, I added the final page to the completed pile resting neatly on the right of my desk and rested back in my seat, content.

I had finished. Finally, it was done.

It had taken me two days to amend all the errors in my work, leaving myself small annotations here and there about things I wanted to change, but at last I was happy with the result and ready to begin the final draft.

It was time to use the book.

Removing the key I kept safely tucked away in the pocket of my shirt, I leant over and unlocked the top drawer of my large oak desk. Reaching in, I grasped the heavy tome with two hands and removed it from its place of isolation, where I had kept it locked away for the preceding two days. Placing it down gently, I strived to avert dropping it loudly against the desk lest I disturb the peaceful quiet that resided through the house, and began to unwrap the book from the cloth that bound it.

It was beautiful. Delicate. Stunning, really. Exquisite in every sense of the word. I knew from the first moment I saw it that it was the book I needed for this story. It was different from any book I had seen before. Special. Unique.

And as I softly caressed the intricate patterns of the dark leather cover, the labyrinth of grooves that etched its skin like a fingerprint, I began recalling the moment I first laid eyes on it. It had been only two days before:

Seated in the very same chair at the very same desk, it was a bright and colourful afternoon outside, as was evident by the almost blinding beams of sunlight spilling into the room from the small windows overhead, despite the fact that it was nearing winter and the air had been cool and crisp for quite some time. I had spent most of the day writing and was just finishing the last pages of the story, a moment I had been looking forward to for many months.

As I quickly scrawled the last few lines in my almost illegible handwriting – a habit I had picked up from needing to scribble down ideas quickly – and dropped the quill, I began to revel in the sudden wave of satisfaction that washed over me for having finally completed months and months of arduous work. I leant back in the stout low-backed chair in which I was seated and stretched away the aches from the many hours I had been sitting. My hand no longer twinged with the pain of having written countless pages of my literature as it once would have when I was a younger man, as I had built up a steady tolerance over the years, but my head was beginning to throb from the endless pondering and conceiving, not to mention the close quarters I had spent with the pages.

Looking about the room for something to steal my thoughts away from my work, I browsed over the various brass instruments I had by no coincidence spread out around me; compasses and sextants, telescopes and theodolites, each positioned within line of sight to inspire rational thinking, and each having once belonged to my father. His tools of inspiration, as he had often referred to them, or so I had been told.

To be honest, I didn’t remember much of the man that had once raised me, but every time I looked at his things, I would find myself swallowed in the few memories I had of him. He had passed away whilst I was still young, several years after my mother had died. From the stories dear Alice had told me as a child, my father, a novelist, was an outspoken Freethinker, a rising breed in the days of his youth. However, he had married my mother, a young Protestant woman with such deeply rooted beliefs that they had spent many years keeping each other on their toes with hour long debates about faith and existence. And although I acquired my beliefs from my father, I still retained several religious habits from my mother, habits to this day I still carry with me.

Taken ill by the time I had only just begun school, when she finally died months later, my father, stricken with grief, spent most of his days locked away in his study, writing. I never saw much of him around the house, but I have vivid memories of listening to the scratching of pen on paper as I sat with my ear to the locked wooden door at the end of the entrance hall. Those were the only years of him I could remember, and so, in my adulthood, I seemed to find myself doing much the same thing. Writing, that is. In fact, I spent my many years as an author writing in that very same study.

When he had passed, he had left me everything he owned, an entire house of memories, however few. And although it may have been situated in a lower-middle class area in the County of Kent, in a quaint, friendly township called Bromley, it was one of the more larger houses in the street, a fact my father prided himself on. Two storeys high and almost twice as wide as some of the neighbouring buildings, it was quite a remarkable estate for a ten-year-old to inherit.

But fortunately, when I was orphaned, I was not left alone. Alice, my darling housekeeper, who had been employed by my father at the time, stayed on to raise me and care for me. With the money my father had earned off his last few books, much of which was received posthumously, she put me through my final years of school until I was old enough to support myself and so therefore I, of course, was obliged to keep her on as my own housemaid.

Eventually I regained the moderate wealth my family had once held through my own writings. I had always been a precocious child in my youth and took to the trait somewhat easily, though I had never attended a writing school like my peers. No, I credit my imagination and skill with words to my father. Whether it was heredity or through teachings in my younger years I have long since forgotten, or perhaps even from the nights Alice had read to me from the many books adorning his personal bookshelf, I can tell from simple comparisons that my writings are much like that of his, a fact reiterated all too often by my publisher.

It was on my twenty-second birthday, when I had completed my first full-length novel, that I sought out the man that had been publisher to my father. Only, when I finally tracked him down, to my dismay, I was informed he had passed away a year prior. But in his place, to my good fortune, his son had taken over, much like I had for my father. However, his business was no longer doing as well as it once had due to a sudden depression in the literary field, and the son, a man by the name of Frank Kelly, was struggling to keep his father’s legacy afloat. It wasn’t until I approached him with my story that things took a change for the better for us both.

Upon reading my book, Frank decided to publish it right away, and I was immediately acclaimed as an official author. The book was a massive success and soon both Frank and I, who had quickly become very good friends, had restored our family’s prosperity anew. Within a few short years, the industry was flourishing once again, better than it had ever been before, with brand new authors popping up all over the country almost every day.

And Frank was soon to be expecting my latest bestseller as well, the most recent in a long line of published works. Oh, how the years had passed!

Leaning forward, I grasped the frame of an old picture standing against the back of the desk. Bringing it close, I wiped away the thin layer of dust that had collected on the glass, revealing the tattered and faded photograph beneath. The faces of a happy family smiled back at me. My mother’s long dark hair, my father’s sunken cheek’s and my big gawky grin; I never grew tired of this picture. It had a scribble in the bottom left corner: Lewis Family, Sept. 21, 1848. It was taken on my forth birthday.

Thud. Thud.

The sound of footsteps over the creaky floorboards outside my study door roused me from my nostalgic reminiscing and I quickly replaced the frame as I heard a light knock.

Mr. Lewis, afternoon tea is ready, Alice’s muffled voice carried through the thick wooden door. Even through all the years she had watched over me as a boy, she had always addressed me as ‘Mr. Lewis’, no matter how many times I had asked her otherwise.

Rising from my chair, I made my way across the room. I could hear the teacup and saucer clinking about on the tray she was undoubtedly carrying.

I turned the key, unlocking the door, and opened it to find Alice slanted forward, ear pressed against it, clearly trying to hear whether I had heard her or not. Although most might find this peculiar, I was by no means offended by her prying; I had fallen asleep at my desk a many number of times in the past. In fact, it was not uncommon for me to spend an entire night sleeping in my chair, only to awake stiffly, regretting it the next day.

As Alice composed herself, I quickly stole a small biscuit from the tray and took a bite.

Alice, please, I’ve told you before, I said between chews, my eyes glancing over her shoulder toward the front door, as plans for the next stage of the day began to form in my mind. Just because you’re my maid, doesn’t mean you can’t call me Charles.

"And I’ve told you before, Mr. Lewis, she replied, taking out her handkerchief and catching the small crumbs that escaped my mouth, that I am not your maid, I am your housekeeper."

She removed the tea and saucer from the tray and handed it to me carefully before turning on her heels and heading back down the hall to the left toward the kitchen.

And as your housekeeper, she continued, calling out over her shoulder as she walked, it is not my place to address you as such.

Laughing, I followed the hall forward toward the front of the house, sipping my tea as I walked, then turned into the parlour, the lavishly furnished sitting room that sat between the entrance and the kitchen and connected to both hallways. As I finished the cup and devoured the remaining biscuit, I set the saucer down on the low mahogany coffee table in the middle of the room and made for my overcoat, hanging on a nearby coat rack in the hall.

I have to head out for some more supplies, I called as I struggled with the arms. I stole a glance at the old grandfather clock in the corner. It was just after three. Plenty of time.

Be sure to take a coat, then, she said, walking into the parlour to join me, undoubtedly on her way to fetch me one. She stopped as she saw that I was amid putting one on.

I won’t be long, I laughed again as I watched her instead bend to pick up my empty cup.

And neither will dinner, she said half-sternly, straightening up. We’re having a roast.

Alice, please. You spoil me, I jested.

Well, someone ought to. You don’t take enough care of yourself now, do you? Now, go. And be sure to take the long way through the park. The fresh air will do you good.

I laughed again at her mothering habits as I made for the door. She had a son of her own, Alexander, who was not much younger than myself, but for as long as I can remember he had always lived a long way across the country with other relatives in order to attend a boarding school his father had put him in before he had passed on. Much of Alice’s earnings had gone to keeping him there. Since then I believe he had found a job nearby the school, perhaps as an accountant. She had rarely visited him in recent years. I suppose, since she hadn’t seen him for so long, her maternal mannerisms seemed to be, more often than not, pressed upon me. And of course, the most frequent of which was her ceaseless prying into my personal affairs, especially when it came to women. Alice always encouraged me to court the opposite sex, regardless of whom they were. She had never cared much for social stature. Perhaps she even saw my marrying someone as her way out, a load off of her shoulders; not that I could see her leaving of course. My home had always been her home and she had never expressed any interest in moving away, not even to be with the family she barely knew. I think she just wanted to see me married because she believed it would change me or make me happier.

But through all the years, I had never been in a relationship before, of any length. Not completely by choice mind you, but from the fact that I was yet to meet somebody I considered worthy of my time. I longed for an equal, someone I could be myself with, someone I could share my thoughts with, my desires. Someone who understood me and didn’t need to change me. Someone who inspired me.

But unfortunately, in my profession, my choices were few. Life as an author was often a solitary existence, one where any kind of relationship was hard to maintain. I didn’t see anybody frequently enough to become fully acquainted with them, besides, of course, Frank and Alice.

Stepping out into the brisk afternoon air, I realised Alice was right, a jacket was most definitely necessary. Although the day was still rather bright, the sun was now hidden behind heavy clouds that had crept in as if from nowhere, and the air was much colder than I had recalled from when I had last left the house. Reminiscing, I believe it might have even been a week or more since I had set foot outside, having spent the entire week locked in my study writing.

I quickly strode down the stairs from the landing and out onto the moist gravel street. The day was still busy, with people walking up and down, and the occasional horse clopping past.

As I made my way out of High Street, I cut across the next road and into the local park, a large expanse of fresh green grass and tall oak trees, whose leaves had almost all fallen since the last time I had passed through. Making my way across the lawn, which was almost completely carpeted in brown, the dry leaves crunched loudly under my feet. As I moved deeper into the park and was engulfed in the shadows of the towering oaks, the temperature fell cooler and I began to see my own icy breath each time I exhaled.

I pulled the collar of my jacket up and marched on, quickening my pace.

It wasn’t long before I was standing before the glass door of Douglas Orson’s Literature Supplies, a local bookshop and my personal supplier of writing materials.

I climbed the single step and opened the door, immediately feeling the warmth from the blazing fireplace recessed in the right wall. Several other people were also hiding from the cold inside, browsing over the many racks of books for sale. At the back of the small shop, behind a tall wooden counter, stood a short, balding man with thick-lensed glasses that made his eyes look like giant marbles.

That will be twelve shillings, his voice carried across the room as he addressed the man he was serving, a tall bearded man dressed in a striking black suit and top hat.

The sight of the man with the spotless attire made me feel a tad underdressed, so I pulled my overcoat tighter, further covering the clothes I had been wearing for several days without having washed, pretending to be seeking further comfort in its warmth and busied myself by browsing over the titles on the nearest rack whilst I awaited my turn. As I said earlier, literature had really taken off again and there was quite a market for novels of all kinds. But as I glanced over the names on the covers, I found that none of them appealed to me. They were mostly romance novels. I, on the other hand, had a passion for only one genre... fiction. Nothing stole my heart more than the excitement of a good adventure story.

As the well dressed bearded gentleman turned and made for the door, I approached the counter, where the familiar-faced dumpy man was busy jotting down his sale.

Good afternoon, Doug.

Ah, Mr. Lewis, he said cheerfully, peering up at me through his spectacles. How lovely to see you out and about. I suppose that means that you’ve finished another one, eh?

Almost, I replied, unable to hide the anticipation.

Doug knew me quite well. He had been my supplier since I had first started writing, but he was also a close friend of Frank’s, who regularly supplied his store with books from all over the world, and so he kept close tabs on my progress with each book. Although I knew Doug to be an admirer of my novels – I had even gifted him several signed prints in the past – I often humoured myself wondering if he was even asked by Frank to pry, just to find out when my next book would be ready for publishing.

Oh, he started, before I forget. That book you ordered last time you were here just arrived a few days ago. Mr. Kelly dropped it off himself.

I was also a common customer when it came to purchasing books. In fact, I had purchased almost every book I owned from that very shop, besides the books I had inherited from my father and, of course, my own works.

Doug crouched down and buried his head under the counter, disappearing from view. A moment later, he reappeared, placing a small hardback book on the counter. The title read ‘Les voyages extraordinaires’.

All the way from France, just as you like it, he remarked, flashing a warm smile at me.

I had become quite an admirer of the works of a recent French novelist who had found fame across Europe over the last decade, and whose works of fiction incorporated such vividly described scientific adventures, they seemed to border between the realms of both science and fantasy.

Thank you, Doug, I said, picking up the novel and flicking through it quickly, but before I could say anything further, he started again.

So, you’ll be needing another book, will you? he asked, stepping backward off his step. Standing entirely on the floor, he was even smaller than I remembered. Although I was at least six feet tall myself, he barely came up to my chest. Perhaps he was shrinking with age.

What will it be this time? he called as he headed off into the storage room to the side of the counter. Pressed leather or a hardback? Or perhaps even another gilded cover, like last time, he said with a grin, poking his head back out of the storage room door.

Actually, I was thinking of something a little different this time, I called back.

You see, every time I finished a novel, I would rewrite it from the loose pages of scribbles and notes I had collected it as into its final form as a handwritten book. I’d then take the book to the publisher’s to be published, after which it would ultimately join the rest of the originals alongside my father’s novels on the large timber bookcase in the study.

Returning from the back room with his arms full of books, all with empty pages waiting to be filled, he dumped the pile on the counter top and climbed his small step to join me.

Casually, I flicked through them and I could tell that he had picked out an assortment of rather attractive books for me; not the kind just anybody could afford. Soft leather and suede covers, most embellished with some kind of delicate and ornate pattern stamped on the front, and even some gilded hardbacks like he had mentioned. These were the best of the best.

Yet none of them appealed to me. I had seen many like them before. No, I was looking for something different. After all, this was to be my twentieth novel and I wanted the book to look the part. I was rather fond of this one. Proud even. In fact, I thought it was possibly my best one yet.

Therefore, it needed to look special. It