Once upon a time, you stood in a garden. Remember the strange smells of the flowers that surrounded you as you walked down one of the many paths. Like dead leaves and ancient libraries. Also recall the look of the strange, red sun that hung in the gray sky above you. As you looked at it, it didn't hurt your eyes. It was a tired sun, for this was a place outside of time. The sun was low in the sky then, as it must be still. In that place beyond time, sundials are useless.

You walked the many paths, not knowing why. Maybe you knew that you had no choice. Even though you can no longer see the garden now, you walk its many ways still. That day -- if it was a day, a day never-ending -- you followed the paths until your feet were sore and bleeding and you were tired to Death of the journey. Though your eyes were on the travel-worn road the entire time, you saw many things, most notably a man in a long, gray robe, something a monk might have worn. Perhaps he was another traveler, but you knew somehow that he was beyond these trails and held within him all the destinations to which they led. This image, among other things, you still hold within yourself from your walk.

At the end, of course, you found your purpose, as all do. (The end, as always, is just a beginning. If not for you, then for someone else. A story never ends without the start of a fresh tale. A travel always leaves a new adventure in its wake.) Your path ended, and you felt a cold wind, an airy hand brushing your shoulder, pushing you to the place beyond your destiny. As she pushed -- you knew, inexplicably, that the hand was female -- she also handed you a tattered slip of paper, shredded terribly at one edge, as if ripped from a book and blown in that cold wind for many countless, unmoving years. Careful not to smudge the delicate, windworn lettering, you began to read your final message, which you were certain was only readable to you and no one else. It was fate. You read...

         The girl was called Alanya. It was not her real name, of course. A witch cannot allow the world to know her name. It was what she was called. Nothing more.
         Left on her own at a young age, she became determined to learn the Craft and follow in the steps of her mistress, Meadow. Her mother. Her teacher.
         Before her time was up, she would see and experience many things. A twice-stolen gem is returned to a king. The Trinity meets and disperses. An identity is discovered. A boon is claimed.
         A long journey begins.
         It begins on a spring's day, at the dawn of Alanya's eighteenth year.
         Fifty long years...

After you finished the words, the beginning of a grand story in someone's life, the first of many, the paper crackled in your fingers and then crumbled to dust, letting the girl in the breeze sweep it away on her chilly breath. And then, you woke up.

Fifty long years. It had been fifty long years since he'd felt the sun on his face. Almost blinded by the light, he covered his eyes with a wizened, weak hand, encrusted with dirt and dry mud. All his power had been depleted in his years of captivity, used just to stay alive. They had underestimated him, but that fact gave him no comfort.

Orrin, now a shriveled old man, pulled himself out of the hole, up from the prison that the mages had created for him. He snorted feebly at their lack of vision. They'd thought him mad, wanting to own the world. No, he'd wanted the universe in the palm of his hand. Not just this tiny little blue orb. It was too...insubstantial for a wizard of his potential to control.

The mages had placed him far beneath the ground, a vain attempt to at least alienate him where he wouldn't be able to menace mankind again. Their petty magic chains had been easily broken. The hard part was getting out. No amount of magic that he had could have plunged upward through those miles of rock and soil. Besides, he had needed the energy to survive.

Finally above ground, Orrin collapsed in an ancient heap. His sickly head began to fill with schemes, plans to regain his lost glory. He would achieve his goal. It would all be his. He just needed a way. There was always a way. The routes were seldom easy or pleasant, however, especially for what he wanted to accomplish.

Not what he wanted to accomplish. What he was to accomplish. All the prophesies of his village pointed to his eventual glory. Softly, he chanted a few verses to himself, like a mantra:

"And a son of Earth born of the Scaled Beast will be born unto the village of Silence;
Human of shape, but Dragon of heart, he will upset the balance of the Universe;
Strength and cunning, and a Serpent's tongue, gathers magick by trickling blood;
Hence, a great and terrible Wizard is formed, to either rule over all or perish;
A King will gain a Stone of power, and a King will die, becoming a servant of Feathers."

His legs were incapable of supporting his weight, despite his emaciated frame. Instead, he used his hands to drag himself along the forest floor, just as he had used them to gradually push his way back to the world above. Ignoring his bleeding fingernails and creaking elbows, Orrin towed himself to a road and silently rejoiced in his good fortune as he saw a small single-horse cart trotting toward him.

"Sir?" called the driver as he paused on the path. The middle-aged man looked down at what he suspected was a poor beggar. "Old man, are you in need of assistance?"

Orrin stopped himself from scoffing at the ridiculous question and managed to croak, "Yes, I am."

The man climbed down from his seat and helped the old man stand. "Cor, you look really bad," he observed as he helped Orrin up into the back of the wagon.

"I guess that I would..."

The man took hold of the reins again and looked back at his new passenger. "Is there any place you wanted to go, or did you just want me to drop you off at the next town?"

"I...have a place that I go to..." As he spoke, his hand snaked toward the small knife at his hip. "Guaflar..."

"All right, but I am getting out of there before sun goes down. Bad things happen there to people at night."

Orrin grinned, knowing that the man couldn't see it. "Yes, I know." He felt the blade, still sharp, and listened to the man prattle on about his wife and children. Orrin endured it, thinking about the right moment to use his weapon, the moment he would plunge it into the driver's chest and let the blood drip out like the sap of life. His energy would come with it, replenishing a small fraction of what Orrin had lost. It wouldn't be much, but it would be a start. It was a small sacrifice for a greater cause.

A snake-like tongue flicked out of Orrin's mouth and licked his lips.

This, first. Then, he would go back to where he had left off. To his home. After that, he would have to see.

Alanya hummed to herself as she looked at her reflection in the pond. Her hands worked quickly and methodically to braid her long hair and pile it on top of her head. It was still a bit damp, which made it easier to do. Alanya had no patience with her long locks snagging on tree branches and tangling into impossible knots. Her strawberry blonde tresses fell down to her ankles when left loose, which caused major problems. Sometimes, she was tempted to simply cut it, but she never did. A childish part of her still delighted in running her fingers through it and brushing it. Besides, a witch should never cut her hair. If even a few strands were captured by a rival or enemy, the results could be disasterous for the witch in question. Musing on this, the young girl wrapped her long braid around her head like a crown. It would be out of the way.

The young witch stood up and threw her ratty brown tunic over her head, tying the strings at the neck into a neat bow. She then drew her belt loosely about her waist, her inherited athame hanging in its sheath of woven hair. Clean and fully dressed, Alanya walked back to her small cottage.

The girl opened the door after remembering that she'd locked it when she left. Alanya held back the curses that welled up in her throat as she examined the broken and enfeebled latch that now hung from inside the worn wooden door. The rust creeping up around the edges of the metal had weakened it, but still, it had given out earlier than she had expected. Alanya shook her head in frustration as she envisioned having to go into town to buy another infernal lock.

It was no matter, really. There was no one around that would think of entering her house while she was gone. That was mostly because most of those around had brains no larger than say...a plum. In her place in the thick of the forest, animals populated the world. Alanya's world. The place she had known for so long. Longer than she had known the companionship of another human being. Despite seeing occasional trekkers one their way from place to place and the odd adventurer or two come up from the village to catch a glimpse of the witch woman, Alanya saw very little of her own race. As a result, she spoke very little, at least to others, and was slightly wary of them. Something in their eyes perturbed her.

Alanya, in the grand tradition of white witches, felt a deep connection with nature and Gaia. The make-shift shelter that she had constructed for herself, though necessary, often blocked her from the world. She resented it and spent as much time as possible outdoors, whether bathing in the pond or reading a script under a shady tree. The many fauna that she came across fascinated her. She had learned a bit about chittering from the chipminks and squirrels -- whom she had discovered spoke two dialects of the same language -- picking up a few greetings and calls. The complexities of that tongue, and those of most of other animals that inhabited her home, were lost to her for the time being, however. Still, she was working on it. Animal languages, to her, seemed infinitely more useful and interesting than human languages. But it was required of her studies that she learn how to read all sorts of ancient scripts, written in all sorts of human vernacular, each profoundly inept in its own unique way. The human mind reduced the world to words so inadequate that it made Alanya laugh out loud at times. Latin. Greek. Aramaic. Hebrew. There were many others that man's collective mind had long forgotten. They each fell short of wonder, something that the animal language never lacked, and looked exceedingly foolish in the process. And they were required material for Alanya.

If only squirrels wrote books, she often thought.

Once again, it was time to do her reading. Shutting the crooked door gently behind her, Alanya ducked underneath a wooden beam threatening to smack her in the forehead. She wished somewhere in the back if that same head that she'd thought more ahead when she'd constructed the house. In front of her stood an equally shoddily-constructed bench, piled high with rolls of papyrus, sheets of delicate rice paper, and books of all bindings. (In a time of such illiteracy, books were both highly-prized and worthless, depending on your learning. In all cases they were rare. Alanya took great care of hers.) She decided on an old favorite, the great grimoire that Meadow had left to her.

She grasped the covers and opened them to her next lesson: healing non-fatal wounds. Alanya bit her lip, unsure of whether a bloody lip was a wound she wanted to heal. Reading the scrawling on the page, she hesitantly drew out her athame from her belt. Even more hesitantly, she put the blade to her hand and made a slice diagonally across her palm. It hurt, true, but it was part of her learning, and she would surely be able to heal herself.

The red liquid, aroused quite grumpily from its usual course through Alanya's blood vessels, began to trickle down her fingers. Looking at the blood on her hand and smeared on her iron blade, Alanya began to feel faint. Still, she tried to chant:

"The one who shines down on m-me in the night, and hides in the day,
I-I ask of you, in my time of need, to-to-to..."

Orrin stepped off of the cart, leaving the lifeless body of his driver behind him for scavengers to find. He walked through the small, dark forest known locally as Guaflar. It was his forest, or, at least, it used to be. Night was fast approaching, and in his current state, despite the power of the new blood in his veins, even he didn't want to stay out in the wilds for too long. All his little servants -- some trapped ghosts, demons, and no small abundance of simple goblins -- had taken over his stronghold in his stead. As the determined sorcerer pushed his way down the badly overgrown forest path, he heard things rustle in the trees and brush about him. It filled him with a sense of, not quite dread, but a profound uneasiness. He needed his power back. He needed to get home...

The old man walked quite a long way, the twigs and branches from the haunted trees catching at his beard, trying to pull him into the suspicious green on either side of the path. As stubbon as he ever was in his youth, Orrin continued on, regardless. This path led to his destiny, as all do, in the end.

He came upon the door, stiff and splintered with disuse and neglect. After a hard shove with the shoulder, it simply fell apart with a sigh of dust. Orrin coughed and waved it from his eyes and nose. He had a lot of cleaning to do, as well.

As his eyes adjusted, Orrin noted that the place was still much as he remembered, despite the film of dirt and dead insects draped over it all. It was filthy but familiar. By the gods, it was good to be back!

Then, the dragon-man heard it. The gentle pulsing, like that of a heart. His forked tongue flicked out for a brief moment, getting a taste of it from the settling air. All he got was the scent of dust. But still, Orrin found the source as a cat finds the source of a mouse's heartbeat. It was his tool, the one thing that might have saved him from being trapped, had he been foolish enough to bring it with him. They would have taken it from him, and he couldn't have had that.

His scepter, crafted of crystal by sharp claws, cracked and flawed by the intense heat of throat-fire.

Orrin held it to himself, letting the simple act of touching it flood him with strength and resolve. So many times he had thought of giving up... All those doubts dissolved now, leaving alone inside him the will to claim his fate and ultimate triumph.

Yes, there were many things to do.

The stars were coming out by the time Alanya awoke again. Maybe it was the moon that woke her, whispering her sinuous reassurances in Alanya's young ear. Or maybe it was the sickening feeling of the congealing blood and dirt on the back of her hand. Whatever it was, the witch opened her eyes.

"Mmm..." she groaned faintly as she pieced together where she was, what had happened, and what was tangled into her hair. She did this respectively and let out another, this time less faint, groan. "Ohhhh..."

"My head," she finally managed to whisper. It hurt as if she'd hit the back of it sharply with a hard clod of dirt. This was completely wrong, of course, seeing as it had been exactly the opposite. But that didn't seem too matter much at the moment, and Alanya slowly stood up, using only her knees as crutches.

She looked at her hand, a deep scar where the cut had been. It had worked at least partially, it seemed. Compared to other possible failures in this line of work, she had come out of it very lucky. However, she would probably be keeping the scar.

"Oh, stars!" cursed Alanya to herself, careful to keep it light. (A curse any graver, and someone, somewhere, might have taken her seriously.) Her anger and frustration combined with disappointment and sadness as she picked up the well-thumbed book from the floor where it had landed. "I am useless...cannot even heal a simple wound without fainting..." She began to weep slightly, wondering why she had chosen this path. Alanya almost began to wonder if there was a way to veer off of the road she had chosen, find another way. The salt tears ran down her cheeks, forking and converging, as if demonstrating to the girl just how easily it could be done. Of course, she paid them no mind.

The tears finally subsided, however, and she decided that maybe it was a good time to get some rest. Yes, she thought, I shall feel better in the morning.

That was when it caught her eye. A spell tucked into the lining of the still-open grimoire. The paper on which it was written looked somehow much more ancient than the book that held it. Something inexplicable told her to read it, so she did.

"'A power stone,'" she read from the crackled script. "Power stone?" Interested, the witch girl read the entire page, which told of a stone, formed many eons ago from the being of human unconscious. It was an object of immense power, guaranteed, Alanya thought, to give a young witch all the mastery of the Art she would ever need.

"This," she concluded, "is just what I need."

Everything was assembled, this time outside. Spells like these called for plenty of space, plenty of atmosphere, and, most importantly, plenty of support from nature. Something of this magnitude, performed by a novice such as her, would require all the support and power she could muster.

She would be lucky if the sheer effort didn't kill her.

The set-up was simple enough: a candle (for light), a circle in the dirt, Alanya's iron-bladed athame, and a common stone. It was so deceptively simple. No one would guess what she was about to attempt.

Alanya knew that she had to start now. Any longer, and her chance might be lost forever. She began:

"From where our souls at night do wander, above the moon, behind and under,
I seek the stone that guides the night, both dreams of pleasure and 'mares of fright,
Through the twin gates of bone and horn, where every wisp of dream is born..."

Mustering up every bit of courage, Alanya thrust her athame defiantly into the circle. She winced as the black stone handle seared the soft flesh of her fingers, but she held firm and drew an X in the center. Even then, she never yanked her hurt paw away with a yelp. She stood, quiet and dignified, and threw the stone into the center of the ring on the ground.

"Stone for stone," she called proudly, "world for world."

You have to make this work! the voice behind her eyes screamed. You have no other choice!

"Stone of power! Come to my hand, and do as I command!"

Alanya, now in a near trance, lowered her hand into the unearthly flame. The heat didn't even bother her anymore.

And then, it was gone, taking with it the small flicker of illumination from the candle, melted and bubbling in the ashen remains of its wooden holder. All was dark except for the moon and the strange red glow of a gem resting in Alanya's thoroughly roasted palm.

The ancient woman tossed and turned in her small, uncomfortable bed. She much preferred nights when the skies were quiet. But tonight, the stars were screaming, keeping her awake. Finally giving up the pursuit of sleep, the Thessalian roused from her straw bed and padded in her bear feet to her small window. The night sky shouted its warnings to her in a thousand twinkling voices, and so she listened.

This, she decided, was definitely not good.

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Prologue     1

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Copyright Diana Marsh, 2000 (Dream and all Sandman characters are the creations of Neil Gaiman and Mike Dringenberg and trademarks of DC Comics and Vertigo. However, Alanya, Orrin, and Meadow are original fictives, to be used by no one but me unless I say otherwise. This is a labor of love, and no money is being made off of it. Yadda, yadda, yadda...)

 Author's Note: This is the first, or introductory, story in a series about Alanya the white witch. I hope to continue it for a long time. (If you have any ideas or would like to try writing a story for the "Daughter of Diana" series, please e-mail me.