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For all the times Hob’s played this over in his head, when the moment comes, he has no idea what else to say. His stranger is here. His stranger is here, in 2022, and he’s smiling, and the first thing out of his mouth was to call Hob his friend. (It’s a wonder Hob’s not crying, honestly.)
His stranger—his friend— has shortish hair this time, and a modern coat, but other than that he looks the same as ever. And Hob says the only thing he can think of.
“It’s good to see you.”
His friend’s smile widens. “It’s good to see you as well, Hob Gadling.”
“I thought I’d scared you off,” Hob grunts, rubbing at his nose. “’89, I thought—”
“I intended to meet you. I was delayed.”
“Well, I waited. As you can see. Hope springs eternal, if you work for it.”
“That it does.”
Hob takes a deep breath, then coaxes himself to slow down and take a couple more. It’s all right. His stranger is back, and he won’t mind if Hob can’t think of what to say for half a minute.
In fact, in the end, his friend is the one to break the silence. “When did the White Horse close?”
“Eh, ’92,” Hob replies, with a nod. “Bunch of us fought to save it, for years. No dice. They wanted those flats built! And now look. Fully thirty years ago and it’s still just rotting there. Condemned now, can’t do anything but knock it down anyway.”
“So you found a new pub.”
“Well. My father,” Hob says, meaningfully, “opened a new pub. Left it to me when he died, ‘bout twenty years back.”
“You own this place?”
“I do. But only the general manager knows,” Hob says, lowering his voice even more than it had been. His friend leans forward, to hear. “I’m in here more nights than I’m not, wouldn’t do to have the staff all stressed that the owner’s always around—” He rubs his nose again, feeling quite comfortable but also the slightest bit shy. “I knew I was going to wait for you. Had to find somewhere to have a drink while I did.”
His friend leans back in his chair again, expression satisfied and serene. “You didn’t find somewhere. You built somewhere.”
“Yeah, I did.” Hob laughs. “I do still miss the old place, though. There’s things you can’t emulate.”
“I can understand why you would have a fondness for it.”
It’s such a typical thing of him to say that Hob feels his heart swell to fill his ribs. Come on, how hard would it be to admit to being fond of it as well? And maybe he shouldn’t push his friend, after what happened the last time he did… still, that gamble did pay off in the end… and it would be nice to hear his friend admit his own appreciation for their old tavern—
He’s going to ask him. Hob is really going to prod him into saying that he misses the old place, too; but when he opens his mouth to speak, what comes out is even more daring.
“I’d sneak in if you would.”
His friend cocks one eyebrow. “Sneak in?”
“To the White Horse. I’d sneak in if you would.” Hob’s nearly whispering at this point. “What’s the worst that happens? An ASBO? Or a CBO, or whatever they are now, I can’t keep track—”
His friend hasn’t stopped smiling, really, since his arrival; but now it widens so much that Hob sees a flash of teeth. “You’re suggesting we trespass?”
Hob shrugs, wags his eyebrows. “I haven’t broken in anywhere in ages. Could be fun. I wouldn’t mind having a proper goodbye to it.”
“Your papers—”
“Can wait,” Hob supplies, gathering them into his bag. “Come on. I think we should.”
His friend rises. Hob’s heart is racing faster than it has in ages as he signals Elise, behind the bar. “I’ve gotta run, love, can you just put that on my tab?” (Maybe he isn’t known here as the owner, but he’s certainly known as a loyal customer.) “Oops, this as well,” he adds, snagging a bottle of merlot with a wink.
His friend, by now, is at the door; he pushes it open when Hob turns towards him. And they step together, into the warm London evening.
It’s odd, but also quite pleasant, to be walking side by side with his stranger. Though they’re on a public street, to be matching pace—and with no table in-between them—feels somehow very intimate.
(Oh, and he knows that Elise will be watching them until they’re out of sight. He can’t wait to hear what the staff and other regulars have to say about him dashing off with a handsome man and a bottle of red wine.)
“You marked this path quite clearly,” his friend notes, as they pass by the first (final?) arrow.
“I mean. Not to say you aren’t clever, just. Suppose that teaching teenagers, you get used to really laying things out as step-by-step as you can.”
Such as series of red arrows spanning a few full blocks. They follow them, backwards, until the White Horse comes into sight.
His friend stops abruptly, in front of the fence. Hob had been planning to go round to the other side of the block, hopefully draw a bit less attention; but of course he stops too. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter,” his friend murmurs, as he touches an absent finger to the chains on the gate. Then he lifts his head, and catches Hob’s eyes.
“My name is Morpheus,” he says.
Hob’s heart skips a beat. “Morpheus,” he echoes, without quite meaning to.
“Yes. But you may call me Dream.”
“Ah, right, because Morpheus was the god of—”
Hob stops. Stops himself dead, right then and there, because maybe the name is in homage but maybe it’s not. “Dream,” he says, not quite finishing his own sentence.
Dream smiles. “Perhaps it is more properly a descriptor than a name, but, I prefer it. It’s— what my sister calls me.”
“You have a sister?” Hob can barely get the words out. If he’d been flabbergasted before, he’s even moreso now. “That’s lovely,” he chokes. “Are you close?”
There’s a slight pause, but then Dream nods.
“Lovely,” Hob squeaks again, then does his best to shake off the cobwebs. “Well. Dream. I suppose I would’ve been disappointed if you told me your name was Glenn or Liam or something.”
Another smile. Or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling from the last one. Happiness is a nice look on him, Hob thinks. “I have many names in many languages. None of them is Glenn or Liam.”
“Right. I go by Robbie, now, by the way, which is I think my sixth spin on Robert.”
“Would you prefer I call you this?”
“Nah, no. Hob’s still good, from you.” In fact he thinks his heart might break to hear his stranger—to hear Dream—call him anything else. “Right,” he continues, with one last shake. “I don’t think I should need a boost. Although if that sand of yours also happens to break locks, I wouldn’t mind not putting a hole in these trousers—”
There’s no response, but a movement in the corner of his eye. Hob glances over.
Dream is holding his hand out, expectantly.
What else is there to do? Hob takes it, skin to skin with his friend for the first time in all their long years together. His hand is cool and dry. It’s not quite as substantial as it should be, like maybe his bones are more a bird’s than a man’s.
“Take a breath,” Dream advises, so Hob does—
And then the world goes black.
It’s over in an instant; but the shock of it, of the wrench, is enough to send Hob clinging to Dream’s arm. Dream, unfazed, laughs softly. The sound of it reorients Hob, and he releases his grip. “Well,” he huffs, “it’s not like I thought you were human, at this point. But, wow.”
“Are you well?”
“Yeah. Got a cast iron stomach, lucky for you. Just caught me by surprise.” But now that the surprise has faded, he looks around.
And sure enough, some-fucking-how, they are inside the White Horse. Hob sighs, and rubs a hand across his chest. “Hello again, love,” he murmurs, realizing for the first time just how much he missed the tavern itself. “That’s two old friends I’ve been lucky enough to see today.”
And it is a pleasant sight—but a saddening one as well. As he’d expected, the condemned old building stands in total disrepair. The floors are grey with dust. Cracks and graffiti mar the walls, and sunlight pierces thick air through holes that have opened in the ceiling high above them.
If he weren’t so used to this by now, Hob might have wept.
As it is, he redirects himself, loathe to waste the moment on nostalgia. Any chairs left in the tavern are badly broken. But the stairs leading to the second floor are still standing, so Hob heads over there, and takes a seat a few steps up. He pulls the merlot from his bag as Dream joins him, perching two steps higher.
“Well, shit,” Hob mutters, bottle in hand. “Thought I grabbed a twisty one.”
“Allow me,” Dream says, taking it; Hob doesn’t look over his shoulder to watch, but when the bottle is handed back to him, the cork is gone.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Hob laughs, and drinks from it. It’s darkly fruity on his tongue. Then he turns, tries to pass it back; and is met with an expression of such utter distain that he laughs again. Ah well, more for him. He drinks again, sets the bottle and his school bag one step below him; then settles in with a sigh.
“Tell me of your last one hundred and thirty years, Hob Gadling.”
“Right. God. I’ve got a lot to catch you up on.” And Jesus, he really does. “Well. I was at sea a while. Settled down in Singapore, then Batavia—um, well, Jakarta, now. Came back in the forties to fight in the war. Then I lived in Nome, in Alaska, for a time. Got my pilot’s license up there—oh! Planes! How was that not the first thing out of my mouth? We can fly now!” He glances back over his shoulder, finds Dream smiling again.
“You can.”
“I’ve been to more countries this century than the rest of my life combined. I know I don’t have to rush as much as the next bloke, but Jesus! Last winter holiday, I went up to Norway, to see the northern lights. Heathrow to Tromsø, it was maybe four hours! Would’ve been ever faster with me in the cockpit,” Hob adds. Instead of looking back again, he adjusts himself to be sideways on the step so he can glance over whenever he pleases. “We’ve done a lot of shitty, shitty things, but. Flight!” He raises the wine in laudation, then takes a deep swig.
“Anyway,” he continues, keeping the bottle in his lap this time. “Where was I. Uh. Well, I came back to London in ’88. Opened the New Inn, obviously. Saw to it for a while, then moved back overseas just long enough to reset and come back as my son. That was 2004. I got a job teaching history and here I’ve been since then.”
“Teaching is one of the oldest and noblest professions,” Dream muses. “You enjoy it?”
“I do. I can’t say the day-to-day of it feels very noble— awful lot of telling kids off for being on their phones. But, yeah. It fits well.” Hob drinks again. “You been up to anything good?”
Dream doesn’t reply. Dream never really replies to this question. But today it’s a different expression than his usual haughtiness: do you think yourself worthy of the knowledge of my affairs? No, today he looks— sad.
Hob wrinkles his nose, a gesture of exasperation that’s purely performative. “I mean, I’ll listen to myself talk for ages if you don’t stop me. Teacher, and all.”
And this time he’s sure of it: Dream’s expression eases.
So, okay. Sometimes a familiar voice really is the best thing for it. “You know,” Hob says, “of all the things we’ve started to do right: making time for hobbies? That’s high on the list. I can play piano now! Not to be immodest but, I’m very good. I can throw pottery, not as well as I can play piano, but well enough. Um. I speak Mandarin! Learned in Singapore. I guess that’s more a skill than a hobby, but I was still quite proud of myself. First language I’ve learned with a different writing system. Oh, and I finally learned how to ride a bike! That was, that was—there were embarrassing moments, in that process.”
Dream smiles. “What else?”
“Oh. Um. I dunno. That’s the general overview. I could go into details but I never know how much detail gets boring. Listen: are you all right?”
Dream stiffens.
“It’s just,” Hob continues, already regretting it, “you seem—”
He lets the sentence die. Dream is still pulled upright, utterly unmoving, all pale skin and dark clothes and starry eyes; and it occurs to Hob, not for the first time tonight, that his Morpheus is not just named after the Morpheus. That he, Robert Gadling, is sitting at the feet of a god.
Who knew a god could look so sad?
“Tell me a story, Hob Gadling.”
It’s hard to hear this as anything less than a holy command.
“Well,” Hob babbles, feeling a bit dizzy, “I’ve got plenty of those. Any topic in particular?”
“Perhaps one from this place”—Dream nods outward— “that I have not heard before.”
“This place? Well, you’re in most of the important stories from this place. But let’s see. A couple times over the centuries, I did let myself be a regular here. Just ten or fifteen years at a time. Oh, I know one!” Hob chuckles. He’s actually quite comfortable as a storyteller, and he leans into it, puts his focus there rather than on the figure beside him.
“It was around 1500. Not long after we met the second time. I was walking home from here, one night, and, out of nowhere, this cat just starts following me. Little grey cat, with white patches. Obviously, there were loads of animals that just sort of roamed then. So, its being there wasn’t strange. But it followed me. Very specifically. Right to my front door. And then inside! I like that about cats. The balls, to just follow a stranger home and announce that you live there too now!”
Hob taps at the wine, but doesn’t drink. “If I’m being honest with you, I was very lonely at the time. Still sorting it all out. So I found I didn’t mind at all, having the cat—having the cat there for, for company—
“Sorry,” he squeaks, as the tears start falling. “I’ve gotten to where, I can even talk about Robyn without getting upset— but that damn cat! If I even think about that damn cat, I go to pieces. Five hundred years later!”
“What was its name?” Dream asks, as Hob drinks some more wine (hoping to wash the tears down with it).
“Ah, Edmunda. Sounds awful now, I know. I called her Eddie—sorry, sorry,” Hob weeps, cutting himself off again. “I wasn’t trying to tell a sad story.”
“Every story is a sad story—”
“The happy ones just know when to end,” Hob finishes, waving him off. “I know. Christ, I bet you’re fun at parties.” He fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleans himself up. “Okay. Story. Okay.
“Eddie thought she was a fucking dog. Or, a human, honestly. Anywhere I went, she’d go. Print shop, market, tavern.” He gestures to the room at large. “I swear to you, everyone here adored her. Gave her meat, water. Blanket by the fire. Anyway. I had this one mate, Jack. Not a bad bloke. But he didn’t care for her. Not a cat person. He wouldn’t pet her. Wouldn’t share his dinner. Ignored her.
“So. None us smelled too fresh in those days. But Jack. Came to notice, Jack smelled worse. And one day, one of us says, hm. What he smells like, is cat piss. You see where I’m going with this.”
Dream must, for he smiles.
“Times were what they were. Habit was to drink enough that by the end of the night, you weren’t noticing much. But I was curious. So I started not drinking so much. Staying in my right mind. Took a few days to catch it, but finally I did. Once everyone was in their stupor, Edmunda was sneaking under the table. Rubbing everyone else’s legs, like cats do, to say hello. But then— having a piss, right on Jack’s boots!”
Dream actually laughs at this. Hob does too, through a fresh wave of tears (and that’s enough of that, he tells himself, sternly.) He blows his nose again, then stows the hanky with a sigh.
“Does it not bother you?” Dream asks, stone-faced again, after a moment. “Outliving everyone you might care for?”
“Of course it bothers me. I won’t lie, I’m much sadder than I used to be. But I’m much happier too. If that makes sense. I’m just more of everything.”
Dream blinks, for long enough that it seems an intentional act. “I long believed the desire for life was borne of the knowledge that it ended. But you have shown me that one does not need to be mortal to truly desire it.”
It occurs to Hob in this moment that his friend’s eyes have gone a bit watery. “Seriously,” he says, shifting even further towards him, “Dream, are you all right?”
“I—” Dream’s voice catches. “I have not been much myself, as of late.”
Hob thinks that his heart might actually crack at this. “You don’t have to tell me,” he replies, quietly, “but you could. If you wanted.”
Hob doesn’t think he will. And he doesn’t, at first. Then:
“In 1916,” Dream says, “I was captured. By an occultist named Roderick Burgess.”
“Captured,” Hob echoes.
“And held as his prisoner. Held as his hostage, so that Death might return his son.”
Hob’s voice comes out hushed. “When did you get free?”
“Recently,” Dream says, and though it’s not exactly clear what he counts as recent, Hob suspects that he means—well. Really, really recent.
“Since my escape,” Dream continues, “I have not felt as I felt before my capture. This morning I visited with my sister. She reminded me of the importance of what I do, of my purpose. It was a valuable lesson. But the fact remains that I used to find a joy in it. Or at least a satisfaction. And I don’t, any longer. And I don’t know—what’s wrong with me.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Hob echoes. Dream’s head sinks a little, as if under the weight of this admission. “Well, I mean— Jesus! Didn’t you just get done telling me that you were held captive for over a hundred years?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t know what’s wrong with you?” Hob hesitates a moment, but only a moment, before putting the wine aside and moving up to share the same step as his friend. “Here’s another story for you. Okay?” He collects himself a bit before going on. “I told you I came back to Europe to fight in the second World War. Yes? 1942, I was taken as a prisoner. Held in a POW camp in Italy almost eight months before I escaped.”
Dream’s eyes have sunk to half mast, eyelashes fluttering; still the tears will not fall.
“I had it better than most,” Hob continues. “They put me to work in a railroad yard, when I could’ve gotten the quarries. Or worse. But it was— it was what it sounded like. It was filthy, and everyone was sick all the time, and there was no privacy. No privacy. You’re so, so lonely, but at the same time, you never have a moment to yourself! Never have the privacy to just curl up and cry with no one looking. And that’s all you want to do, really. Is cry. There’s so much cruelty. Sickness. And hunger. So many men around me, dying of pure hunger, it wasn’t right for me to keep my own rations. I went nearly five months in one stretch without a single bite of food.
“I know less than a year is nothing compared to a century. But you say you don’t know what’s wrong with you. What’s wrong with you, is that the last hundred years of your life have been hell. Eight months was enough to break me, I don’t mind telling you, it was a long time to put myself back together after that. When I was finally free, I thought I’d feel amazing. Sleeping in a real bed, eating again, coming and going as I pleased. But in a lot of ways, I felt even worse.
“I think you can rely on your hope for so long that once it’s done its job, once it’s seen you through, and you’re not living day to day off it anymore, you think that’ll feel normal. You think that’ll feel better. But instead it feels like, where’s my hope gone? You’re not running on hope anymore and you think that’ll be a good thing but instead it just feels—”
“Hopeless.” It’s the first word his friend has spoken in a while now.
“Yeah,” Hob sighs, letting himself sag. “Exactly.” When he can, he looks over at Dream, thinking at least he’ll see the relief of falling tears. He doesn’t. Dream’s eyes are still swimming, but his cheeks are stubbornly dry.
“My friend. I think you might be expecting too much of yourself, too soon.”
Dream swallows, thickly. “The expectations placed on me are real, Hob Gadling. I have a kingdom to oversee.”
“Right. So. I guess it’s not on the table to piss off to Alaska like I did. Grow a massive depression beard”—this he illustrates with both hands— “and make friends with polar bears.”
He’d been hoping for at least a tiny smile; but Dream’s still just staring blankly. Hob leans sideways, until their arms press together.
“You know, one thing I’ve heard that I like… is that you don’t have to feel hopeful for the future. It’s enough to be curious. I mean, most days I’m hopeful. But even when I’m not, even when I’m too damn sad to be, I think about something like—like movies!” Hob smiles, turning his face to offer the sight of it. “A hundred and fifty years ago, movies didn’t even exist. And now, Jesus Christ, I mean, some of the effects are so good I can hardly believe it! So even when I’m feeling hopeless, I can still wonder: what are movies gonna look like, fifty years from now? Do you watch movies?”
“Not as such.”
“Well, you’re one for stories, aren’t you?”
Dream raises his head, just a little, at this. “I’ve recently been told about a movie called— Mary Poppins?”
He says it with such absolute gravity that despite it all Hob struggles not to laugh. “It’s a classic,” he agrees. “Tell you what, why don’t you come back to my flat? We’ll watch Mary Poppins. I don’t have the DVD, but these streaming services, now, we can watch anything you like!”
Dream frowns. “I should return to my duties. I have been here long enough.”
“Doesn’t have to be tonight, okay?” Hob adds, and gives Dream’s knee a quick squeeze. “It’s a standing invitation.”
“—all right,” Dream whispers. Hob grins.
“I’d give you my phone number, but something tells me you don’t have a phone. Or, need a phone. I dunno, do you know semaphore?”
“Tradition dictates,” Dream replies, seeming to gather himself, “that to summon me, you would write my name on a piece of parchment, and then burn the parchment so that the smoke touched open air.”
Hob looks to see if he’s allowed to laugh at this, but in the moment, Dream’s expression gives no tell. He decides against it. “Good to know.” He rubs his nose. “I guess all I’m saying is, I hope I get to see you again, before 2089.”
“I think,” Dream says, “you shall.” And he stands.
Hob stands too, taking one step downwards as he does. He shoulders his school bag but leaves the quarter-drunk bottle of wine as an offering to the old tavern.
It feels fitting, to leave an unfinished drink somewhere he knows he’ll never return.
“Can I hug you goodbye? Right,” Hob adds, smiling at his friend’s expression, “I will not hug you goodbye. Can I get a teleport out of here, though? I don’t actually fancy explaining to my head teacher why I’ve been arrested for trespassing.”
Without a word, Dream extends his hand.
Hob’s better braced for it this time; still it takes a moment for his vision to right itself as his feet touch the ground. And the scenery itself disorients, at first. He’d been expecting the London air, the summer sunset; instead he stands in the middle of his own living room.
Dream is nowhere to be found. And yet it must be said that Hob feels like he’s been walked home.
He goes to the front door. Takes off his shoes; flicks the lights on; and leaves his keys and school bag on the hooks, as if he’s just stepped inside. Leaving for work this morning, it had seemed an entirely ordinary day. Nothing at all to suggest that his closest friend, absent for 133 years, would come strolling at last into the pub that existed for that sole purpose.
What a wonderful day, and it simply arrived out of nowhere. That, combined with the promise of meeting again sooner than usual—it fills Hob with a sense of curiosity for what tomorrow will bring.
Curiosity, and hope.