I'm only able to calm down when I feel Gran's arms around me. How long I've been screaming with the head of my father resting in my lap, I don't even know.
The walls and ceiling light up with blue flashes. The ambulance arrived shortly after the police. My father has already been wheeled out of the kitchen on a gurney. I tried to get up to accompany him, but even Gran was strong enough to stop me. Gran strokes my hair gently while guiding me to the bathroom to rinse my hair and then to bed, muttering old proverbs that I don't understand. I can only think about the man who looked like my father but whom I've never met before. "Happiness grows with tears of grief, Tinderstick," is the last thing I hear her say before she tucks me in, turns off the light, and closes the door.
Darkness. Silence. I know I should sleep, but despite my exhaustion, I just can't. I close my eyes, my mind racing, and then, quite abruptly, my eyes roll back in their sockets.
I am dreaming. Am I dreaming?
I’m back in the school square. At least, I recognize the building, but it’s much bigger now. It has somehow grown into a castle, straight out of myths and legends. It's many stories high. Dozens of spires reach for the night sky.
Behind me, I hear the sound of heavy boots thumping in perfect unison, coming closer and closer. When I glance over my shoulder, I see the first row of soldiers turning onto the street that leads to the school. After the first row follows the second and the third and many more. All soldiers wear identical black combat gear and helmets with dark visors, making them appear uniform and devoid of personality.
One thing is clear, they're coming for me and I have only one chance to stay out of their hands: the school. I sprint across the square, grab the door handle, and pray it's open. It is. Lucky me. I throw myself inside and race through the corridors. The inside of the school looks exactly as I know it, except for one thing. There are elevators now? That's odd for such a notoriously old-fashioned school, but I don’t complain. I dive into the first elevator, I see and randomly press a number. Just in time. Through the narrowing gap of the closing doors, I see the first line of soldiers approaching, their pace never quickening, like zombies in a horror movie, but far more methodical and organized.
This marks the beginning of a tense, surreal game of cat and mouse. To whatever floor I go, there’s always the threat of running straight into the soldiers arms, who never hurry, but are always on my heels. I hide in classrooms, closets, behind curtains, or atop cupboards—slipping around corners just in time to avoid capture. Every time it feels inevitable that I’ll be caught, I manage to escape in some improbable way, always climbing higher into the building. Finally, there’s only one way out: a long spiral staircase leading up to one of the towers.
Panting like a dog and sweating like a pig, I stumble through the narrow door onto the flat rooftop. It’s completely empty. It’s too late to turn back. The ominous thud of footsteps behind me grows louder. I look around, but there’s nothing to hide behind and no other way out. I’m trapped.
Above me, I hear the soft rustle of a curtain caught in a draft or perhaps the sound of fabric brushing together—but when I glance up, there’s nothing there. Or maybe... yes... birds. Crows. Lots of them, barely discernible against the black sky. This isn’t good. I know crows from books, myths, and legends, from Odin to Arthur. They are inextricably tied to war and death. Crows are bad news.
As the first soldiers march through the door onto the rooftop, I rush to the edge and peer over the merlons into the depths. No safety nets or modern precautions—just a sheer drop. It defies every modern safety standard; someone could easily fall to their death like this.
When I lift my gaze, searching for an escape route, I see only a forest of towers and spires rising from the school below, the nearest one at least 30 meters away. This is hopeless.
A sharp shrill flute signal cuts through the silence. The troops come to an abrupt halt. As one they stand in perfect battle order, waiting for what comes next. What will come next? I ask myself with growing desperation. All this time I have managed to stay calm enough to think rationally but when I see a gigantic wolf step onto the rooftop, panic grips at my throat. Slowly he moves through the ranks using the pathway the commandos left open for him. This is too much. I clamber on top of the merlons. I’d rather fall to my death than get eaten alive. I once read that when you fall from a great height, you are probably already dead halfway down. Something with suffocating or something. Although I’m not sure if there’s any truth to it.
"It's just a dream, it's just a dream," I mumble to myself, pushing off. With a wide arc, arms flailing wildly, I soar through the air and land on the roof of the next tower, twenty meters away. I trip, hit the ground hard, scrape my knees and elbows, but I'm safe. This is a dream! It must be.
There's no time for relief or celebration, though. Behind me, a door slams open. New hordes of commandos march onto the roof, but this time, I know how to escape. I take a running start, push off, and leap in a perfect arc to the next tower rooftop. This time, I land more controlled, barely stumbling.
Another door crashes open, and again, I jump to a next tower and I keep going until, finally, no more doors open behind me. I've outrun them. I've escaped.
Out of breath and euphoric, I turn around to taunt my pursuers, but what I see is so unexpectedly horrific that all sound dies in my throat—a forest fire of towers. Every single one I've landed on and leapt from is ablaze. The soldiers on the rooftops have no chance of escape. They perish in the inferno, silent and disciplined—but I know it's me who has killed them.
In the distance, I hear the death-howl of a wolf. Above me, the fire paints the night sky red. The crows that had been circling overhead all this time fall from the sky like burning packages, a miniature meteor shower. Everything isn't just dying—it's being exterminated… by me.
Someone is shaking my shoulder. I shoot up. Gran is looking at me with wide, anxious eyes, look drained and exhausted.
"You were screaming, Max," is all she says. She doesn't even comment on the fact that I’m soaking wet, or the enormous washing tub she’s holding. Smoke is still curling off me.
“What time is it, Gran?”
“Still night, pumpkin.”
–Silence–
No ancient proverb about the night being the velvet cloak of happiness or some other impenetrable saying? This must be serious. Something must have happened, and she’s afraid to tell me.
“What is it, Gran? What happened?” I try to swing my legs out of bed, ignoring the splitting headache, which seems to be an inevitable side effect of a trip to the other dimension. “What is it? Tell me.”
Gran’s face is pale as a sheet, her mouth twitches. I’ve never seen her like this. To hide her own distress, Gran pulls me into her giant bosom, nearly suffocating me.
“It’s your father, Max. He never made it to the hospital. He’s disappeared.”