Dormia (3 page)

"Hello?" yelled Alfonso. "Can I help you?"

The man simply gestured with his hand for Alfonso to come over.

"You need some help?" asked Alfonso again.

The man nodded.

Alfonso glanced back at the crate and then walked reluctantly toward the man. The motorcyclist was very tall, almost six and a half feet. He had a great deal of white hair, a finely maintained handlebar mustache, and a long crooked nose. He wore an old bomber jacket, a tightly fitted leather aviator's cap, and an ancient-looking pair of racing goggles.

"Hello, my name is Hill Persplexy, though you should feel free to call me 'Uncle Hill,'" mumbled the man as he took off his racing goggles. "And you must be Alfonso. Yes, you look like your father."

"Uncle Hill?" said Alfonso incredulously. "You mean you're my father's..."

"Older brother," muttered the man. "Yes, that's me."

"Wow!" said Alfonso excitedly. "I never thought you'd—"

"Show up?"

Alfonso nodded and then beamed at his uncle. In the years after his father died, Alfonso often hoped that his uncle Hill might magically appear. And, suddenly, here he was. Yet, as Alfonso took a closer look at his long-lost relative, he noticed something peculiar. His uncle's eyes were half closed. Moments later he let out a very audible snore.

"You're asleep!" said Alfonso.

"Why of course I'm asleep," Hill mumbled. "Do you think I could have ridden that old motorcycle in these conditions if I
were awake? I just sleepdrove here all the way from Chicago, where I live. Nonstop. There's not a moment to lose."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you more as soon as I wake up," Hill said briskly. "Let's go inside and get some coffee, shall we?"

"But in the greenhouse there's—"

"Never mind that now," said Hill. He drew nearer to Alfonso. "We have urgent matters to discuss—lives are at stake."

I
NSIDE THE HOUSE
, Judy Perplexon overcame her initial shock at seeing her husband's long-lost brother and quickly put on a pot of coffee. They all sat down with him in the small living room, next to the fireplace. For at least five minutes, Hill said nothing but snored loudly. It was enough to make Pappy and Alfonso very tired. At last, Judy served him a mug of piping hot Colombian coffee. Hill downed it in several large gulps. He then blinked furiously, rubbed his eyes, looked around the room, and gasped: "Where on earth am I?"

"You're in World's End, Minnesota," Judy Perplexon calmly explained. "I am Judy, this is my son, Alfonso, and this is my father, Pappy Eubanks."

"Pleased to meet you. I am Hill Persplexy," he said with a
polite nod. "I believe you were acquainted with my brother, Leif Persplexy."

"Of course I was acquainted with him," Judy softly replied. "H-he was my husband."

"I see," said Hill. He looked at Judy. "It appears I've missed both his wedding and his funeral. I'm very sorry for your loss. My failure to see Leif before he died will haunt me forever." They sat silently for a few minutes until the silence seemed unbearable. "When did he pass away?" Hill asked.

"Three years ago," replied Judy.

"What a horrible pity," said Hill with a sad shake of his head. He reached across the table and grasped Judy's hand tenderly. "You must forgive me for not calling sooner. I only just found out about the whole sad affair myself. When I was driving through town on my motorcycle, I asked for directions to the Persplexy place and this big fellow at the general store told me that Leif had died. Drowned in the lake, he said. This was news to me. As I'm sure you know, the two of us were separated as kids. I've had the darndest time tracking him down. I even hired a private detective at one point. No signs of Leif Persplexy anywhere in the Western Hemisphere. That's what the detective told me. Paid him near seven thousand dollars for that tidbit. Anyway, I'm so glad to have found you. So very, very glad indeed."

"Uncle Hill?" said Alfonso.

"Yes," replied Hill kindly.

"Why are you calling my father Leif
Persplexy?
His name—our name—is
Perplexon.
"

"Afraid not," replied Hill with a large, rather apologetic smile. "That was a mistake made by the orphanage in Vancouver. The
name is 'Persplexy'—always has been—it's an old Dormian name. Quite a respected one actually. If I remember correctly, there were a number of distinguished Dormian sword makers by that name. Of course, they were asleep while they made the swords, but they still made fine weaponry..."

Judy and Pappy Eubanks exchanged uneasy looks.

"I'm sure Leif told you all about Dormia so I won't bore you with the details."

"He didn't mention anything like that," said a suspicious-looking Pappy.

"Oh dear," said Hill with a sudden look of concern. "Not a word, eh? Leif always was a bit of a secretive fellow. Didn't like to talk about himself. Yes, well, er ... I have some explaining to do. You see, Alfonso, even though I know very little about you, I am willing to wager that you are a most unusual sleeper."

"Tell me about it," said Alfonso with a sigh. "The doctors say I've got Morvan's syndrome."

"Those doctors are fools," said Hill. "They insist on coming up with fancy, complicated names for any so-called disorders that baffle them. When I was in an orphanage in Winnipeg, they told me I had the same thing, and claimed it was because I had contracted a rare form of cholera. Nonsense! Let me tell you, dear nephew, what you have is not a disorder, or a syndrome, but a gift! It's the gift of
wakeful sleeping.
Your father had it because he was Dormian, and obviously he passed it on to you."

"Is that right?" inquired Pappy Eubanks skeptically.

"Yes," replied Hill in a matter-of-fact tone. "Dormia is a place where everyone goes about their business—wielding swords, writing books, building palaces, cooking dinner—while asleep.
And this is no coincidence. Ever since the beginning of Dormian history, which I confess to know precious little about, the Dormians have been at war with a nasty lot of roaming barbarians known as Dragoonya. Unfortunately, these Dragoonya fellows outnumber us and they're unusually skilled in battle. Don't ask me why they hate us—I forgot. Anyway, at some point along the way, we Dormians took to defending ourselves in our sleep. We simply couldn't afford to waste our sleeping hours in bed. It was necessary to muster every man, woman, and child—sleeping and awake—to be on guard against our eternal foe. We hid ourselves in a series of great mountain fortresses deep within the Ural Mountains. They eventually became the eleven great cities of Dormia."

"There are eleven cities of Dormia?" inquired Alfonso.

"There
were
eleven cities of Dormia," corrected Hill. "The Dragoonya destroyed most of them, although at least one city—Somnos—still exists in the Ural Mountains. That's where Leif and I were born."

Pappy's eyes looked massive behind his reading glasses. He furrowed his eyebrows and uttered a theatrical sigh.

"Hmm," grunted Pappy. "You claim these
Dormians
can defend themselves while asleep? How's that possible? When you're asleep your eyes are closed!" He spoke the last sentence slowly and with great exasperation, as if talking to a very slow person.

"Not in this case," Hill briskly replied. "Even in the world outside Dormia, it's possible. When normal people sleepwalk, their eyes are often open even if they're in a deep sleep, snoring away. It's the same for Dormians. They may shut their eyes for a few seconds at the beginning of sleep, but then their eyes pop back open. Think of it as a trance."

Judy glanced at Alfonso. The doctors in St. Paul had described Alfonso's sleeping disorder exactly the same way. Pappy fell silent but soon his eyes lit up again. "Dormia is in the Urals, you say? That should be easy enough to verify. We'll just look it up in my trusty old atlas over here—"

"Oh, don't bother," interrupted Hill. "You won't find it in an atlas or any other reference book."

"Is that so?" asked Pappy. "And you expect us to believe this claptrap nonsense with no proof?"

"To the contrary, my good man," replied Hill. He stood up and took off his old leather bomber jacket. Beneath this he wore a heavy wool turtleneck and a shoulder-strap holster that contained a well-polished Colt .45 revolver. Both Pappy and Judy stiffened at the sight of the gun.

"Don't worry about the revolver," said Hill. "I'm a well-trained marksman. I got her during my days in the air force. The two of us have been through a lot together. Anyway, what I want to show you is this..." Hill reached into his jacket and pulled out a crinkled December issue of the magazine
American Botanist.
Alfonso recognized the issue immediately because his plant was featured in its pages. The botanist from the University of Minnesota had snapped a few pictures of the plant during his visit and submitted them to the editors at
American Botanist.
The article said nothing about Alfonso or Pappy. In fact, it wasn't really an article. It was just a series of photos with a small caption that read, "This remarkable, color-changing plant was grown organically in a greenhouse in World's End, Minnesota."

"What kind of proof is that?" Pappy demanded. "You can buy that magazine anywhere."

"Let me explain," said Hill. "Every night during the last month, when I fell asleep I promptly sleepwalked to the nearest newsstand and purchased a copy of
American Botanist.
This happened every night without fail. Of course, I couldn't understand why I was doing this, but I figured there had to be a reason. At times I may be a fool, but my sleeping-self is a very clever man. I looked through the magazine and there, on page thirty-eight, was a remarkable yet strangely familiar image. Long ago—in another time and place—I knew I had seen this flower with petals that changed color. And then it hit me: this was a Dormian bloom—"

"This is all very interesting," Pappy Eubanks said impatiently. "But, kind sir, we are still waiting for a shred of proof!"

"Yes, of course," replied Hill. He reached into his jacket again and this time pulled out a small leather-bound book that wasn't much bigger than a deck of cards. On its cover, in ornate gold writing, were the words
McBridge's Book of Mythical Plants.
Hill handed it over to Pappy, who stared at it in his hands.

"What's this?" he asked. "Mythical plants? What kind of made-up nonsense are you peddling!"

"Oh, it's real," replied Hill. "A palm reader and occult store owner I knew in Chicago was going out of business and selling all his books. He sold the whole lot to me for two dollars, and this one was at the bottom." Hill pointed to the leather-bound book. "Yes, it's been my source of knowledge for quite a few things. You'll see. Turn to section
D.
"

Alfonso and Judy quickly gathered around Pappy as he opened the well-worn cover of the book. It was ordered alphabetically. The first entry was the Achaemenian Rose, whose petals supposedly turned to gold dust when rubbed together.
According to the book, it was last seen in ancient Persia during the reign of Cyrus the Great (559
B.C.
). Next there was the Afrinagan orchid of Atlantis, whose roots apparently burst into flames whenever they were exposed to direct moonlight. "Yeah right," muttered Pappy as he flipped through the pages until he came upon section
D
and found an entry for Dormian bloom. Next to it was a drawing of a plant that looked similar to the one sitting in the greenhouse. The book noted:

Dormian bloom:

This rarest of plants is distinguished by its remarkable petals, which change color every few minutes in a cyclical fashion. It supposedly possesses a number of magical powers including the ability to turn frozen earth into ripe, fertile soil. The plant is indigenous to the mythical kingdom of Dormia, where it has always been closely guarded by the Order of Dormian Knights, who are renowned for their ability to fight in their sleep. Little is known for certain about Dormia, but it is believed that this ancient symbol is the nation's insignia:

***

When a Dormian bloom is fully grown, it becomes a Founding Tree of Dormia. At this point, its trunk stands over one thousand
feet in height and its roots, which stretch out for hundreds of miles in all directions, pump nourishment into the soil. These trees are the lifeblood of Dormia and are exceptionally prized.

The legend of the Dormian bloom is widespread throughout much of Central Asia. Even the Venetian traveler Marco Polo mentions hearing of it during his travels to the Far East in the late thirteenth century. It is speculated that the plant is native to the Ural Mountains. Yet even here, there is a saying in Russian, which hints at its rarity. The saying is used by locals to describe highly improbable occurrences. It goes:

Roughly translated this means:
"
That is as unlikely as seeing a river
that flows uphill or stumbling upon a
flower of Dormia.
"