1816, German Confederation
The agonies of Cambodia were fifteen years behind Coppelius. Since then, the French had gone mad, led by their vile little emperor, Napoleon. Kingdoms and empires had been cut up and parceled into something new, just as he had been in that cave. Now Napoleon was exiled to some lowly isle, and he to Berlin.
He had chosen Berlin because it had endured as much change as he had. Just ten years ago, it had been part of the Holy Roman Empire. Then Napoleon remade the region into a French territory he called the Confederation of the Rhine. After the Battle of Waterloo, it was now its own union that called itself the German Confederation.
Going home had been pointless. No one ever noticed him. If he jumped in front of someone, they would bump into him. Sometimes they would stumble or fall and still not notice him. People would instead blame their own clumsiness.
If he did anything that should make a sound there would be silence and a puff of golden dust that faded away in a heartbeat or two instead. When he tried to speak, he breathed out golden dust in a cloud that billowed into the eyes of everyone near him. They would all get sleepy and start heading to their beds.
It was not just people. Animals never noticed him, either. Doors he wanted to enter would unlock themselves and open for him. He could not leave tracks, not even in snow or sand. Writing was useless. Whether he used ink, charcoal, or even blood, the letters always appeared as golden dust that would blow away at the slightest stirring of air.
"Sulking gains you nothing, Morpheus," a voice from behind Coppelius said in Latin. It was old Latin and, like the Greek spoken by the vine-man had done, the old Latin translated itself in a very English way in his mind.
He froze then sucked in a breath before turning away from the attic window he had been staring out of. A man in a red Roman kilt and a golden cuirass stood on the Hanover rug.
"Who are you and how can you see me?" he demanded, then flushed. His voice had made no sound and a cloud of dust came out to engulf the stranger.
A moment later, the dust faded away. The stranger stood there waving a hand as though wafting away a bad smell.
"Epiales certainly twisted you up," the stranger said. "But don't worry. We can work around that." He waved a hand at the stuffed chair near the window. "Sit down. This could take some time."
Should I listen to what he has to say? The last stranger I talked to cursed me. But ... he noticed me and it's been so long, Coppelius thought.
He sat in his chair.
"Good! Now then, lean back and relax."
Coppelius stiffened in his chair and started to stand.
"No! Sit down!" the stranger ordered, then winced. "I-I mean ... please, stay seated." He took a deep steadying breath. "This is new for me, too."
Coppelius leaned back in his chair.
"Good. Take a deep breath. You can close your eyes for a moment to find your calm."
Coppelius took a deep breath and held it. He closed his eyes for a moment, then let his breath out. He opened his eyes.
"You can speak freely now," the stranger said.
Coppelius glared at him.
"Try!" The stranger snapped then winced again before continuing in a calmer tone. "Try. Please."
"Fine." Coppelius blinked. It was his voice that came out, not sand! He stared at the stranger. "How?"
"You're asleep."
"What?"
"Well, it's only a little nap, and you're having a daydream."
"I'm dreaming." Coppelius slumped in his chair.
"You really need to read your tome."
"I can't. I've tried."
"You have tried to read it as Coppelius. You need to read it as Morpheus. It will teach you all you need to know."
"I don't want to stop being me!"
"You will always be you! Morpheus is you! Coppelius is you! Whining like a babe is you! Sulking like a schoolboy is you!" The stranger, his face red and the veins in his neck pulsing, took a deep breath, then another. On the third breath, the veins settled back into his neck. By the fifth breath, the red had faded from his face and he finally spoke again. "Embrace all of you and you can read your book."
Coppelius stared at the stranger.
"Who are you?" he finally managed to ask.
"Who am—" The stranger snorted then shook his head. "I suppose you wouldn't know, not these days." For a moment, the stranger looked very old. Then he straightened his shoulders. "I am Somnus, the god of sleep. You are now Morpheus, the god of dreams, and your brother, Epiales, is the god of nightmares."
"The vine-man is my BROTHER? Does that make you our FATHER despite me already having one?"
"Well, no, I am not your father," the stranger said. He gently waved his hands downward to try and calm Coppelius. "I did sort of make you both. Unintentionally."
"How did THAT happen?"
Somnus flushed.
"Never you mind!"
"Fine. Why did you let him do those things to me?"
"You were separated and nicely tucked away for nearly two millennia. There was no need to keep an eye on you two."
"And now?" Coppelius demanded. "Are you going to fix me?"
"I can't do that, Morpheus," Somnus admitted. His shoulders slumped. "Maybe in the past I could have but not anymore. Only Epiales can undo what he did."
Coppelius crossed his arms and glared at Somnus. "That will never happen."
"No, it won't. But you can find your own way to overcome them if you would just read your tome."
"Can I go back to my life?"
"You can be the god you are, Morpheus. You are the god of dreams, good and bad. You can best Epiales if you learn."
"But you're the good of sleep, why can't you do it?"
"To deal with Epiales as I have, the balance of the slumbering and the wakened has shifted. Maybe you noticed that there have been wars? Some are still going on? The world cannot endure too much imbalance. It needs the calming peace of sleep. It needs you to be the god of dreams that you are."
"He is powerful."
"You can be, too, if you learn. Somnus heaved out a weary sigh. "You have a handful of years to do so. I have Epiales being useful. When he is done, he will once again be a threat."
"How will I know when that happens?"
"Napoleon will die."
***
Coppelius woke up, sitting in his chair. It was still the middle of the day. Somnus was gone. Had it all been real, or just a daydream? He looked at the tome that sat on the reading table next to his chair. Why was it out from under the bed this time? The damn thing had taken him a year to train to stay there when he went out and about. Perhaps Somnus had moved it. He frowned. Might as well see if his daydream had been real.
He picked up the tome, leaned back in his chair, and opened it. The pages were not paper. Instead, they were thicker and stronger parchment that seemed new despite so much time hidden away in Cambodia. The writings on them still looked like gibberish.
What did Somnus mean by embracing Morpheus? All he knew was if he tried to make a noise there was dust. He glared at the book.
"Let me read you," he said. As usual, there was silence and dust. It whirled about. When it touched the gibberish on the page, there was a golden glow that faded with the dust. Coppelius sucked in a breath. It was no longer gibberish. Now it was ancient Greek, something he had learned to read at university. Like the spoken Greek of Epiales, these written words translated themselves into a very English manner in his mind.
I will just have to get used to such odd things, Coppelius supposed. He started reading the book.
***
Months passed and it was August. Coppelius had read the book once and then went back to study parts of it. He practiced as he studied those parts and he had indeed grown his control of Morpheus, the golden dust within him. He now had the power of dreams which was his only means to communicate with anyone. It was not as simple as it had been with Somnus.
Dreams were very strange places. Dreamers were vulnerable to dreams out of control The book explained that his godly power would grow as more people believed in him. But how did he get them to believe in him? No one even knew he existed. Most did not even know of Somnus despite the sleep left in the corners of their eyes.
Belief was not the same as faith. People simply had to believe he existed. There was no need for prayers or dedications. Such were for those great gods who led religions. All he had to do was get dreamers to start believing that there was a master of dreams. It was a simple plan that was impossibly slow as he could only enter the dreams of one dreamer at a time.
What he needed was a way to get the word out to many people at a time. The best way would be to write a story. People loved stories, buying the papers hawked on the streets and books. Parlor readings were very popular, especially if the host or hostess had a knack for storytelling. People often dreamed of these readings, he had discovered.
He could not write, thanks to the vile things Epiales had done to him. But he could talk to dreamers and tell them a tale. All he needed to do was find a writer, tell them a story in their dreams, and they could write it. And he just might have found one.
Coppelius read the paper in his hand again. On it was a review by one Carl Maria von Weber of a new opera playing at the Berlin Theatre, Undine by author and composer Ernst Hoffmann. It was a very enthusiastic and greatly admiring review. Tonight, he would visit Hoffmann in his dreams.
**1821**
Morpheus leaned against an apple tree and watched the busy street before a little bookshop. Displayed in the window was a stack of books with the title prominently displayed, Die Nachtstuke. Written by a local man named Ernst Hoffmann, it seemed to be selling well as three had been purchased so far today. It was a nice collection of short stories, but what appealed most to him was the first story, Der Sandmann.
Morpheus sighed out golden dust. It formed into a ship riding the waves. A man hurrying past the apple tree went through the dust as it faded. He yawned and slowed down, but trudged on.
Hoffmann had not remembered Morpheus' name and called him Sandmann. He then forgot about Epiales and wrote the Sandmann as this terrible creature who threw sand into the eyes of the wakeful, then stole those eyes. An awful tale, but at least it warned people, especially children, to sleep.
While Hoffmann had worked on the story, Morpheus had gone to Transylvania, another land torn by wars. The people there were known for telling stories. He had made himself resemble a kindly old man. By the time he left Transylvania a few months ago, they were telling tales of Mos Ene who was a terrible monster.
Word was getting out. He could feel ... something. What was most puzzling, though, was how little of their dreams people remembered or even understood. Fortunately, there was still time to perfect this dream-talking thing.
A man pushed a cart down the street and stopped at the corner. Two boys with him each picked up a printed sheet and began yelling.
"News for sale! News for sale! Three pfennige and read all about it!"
A middle-aged man stopped and bought one. He leaned against the bookshop to read it.
"Ha! Now that's some good news!" He crossed the street, crumpled the paper, and tossed it under the apple tree before walking on.
No one noticed Morpheus pick it up. He neatly straightened it out and started to read. His eyes froze at the headline.
NAPOLEON IST TOT! Dread firmed his lips.
Napoleon is dead. What do I do now?
An apple crunched loudly by his ear. He whirled about. There was Somnus eating an apple.
"<Let's go to your place, Morpheus. You could do with a little nap>."
Morpheus glared at him but nodded. He led the way back to his attic room where he plopped into his chairs and closed his eyes.
"What do you want, Somnus?" Morpheus asked, still shaken at the bad news.
"<I see you don't need to be warned that Epiales is no longer distracted>." Somnus pointed at the crumpled paper that sat on the reading table.
"No."
Somnus cleared his throat.
"<You are doing splendid work. Your powers are indeed growing>."
"I don't know how to fight him," Morpheus admitted. He shifted in his chair.
"<Imagination. That is what dreams are, after all>."
"Is it really that simple?"
"<Well, simple doesn't mean easy. You must practice at being as creative as those storytellers you seem to be favoring>."
"Practice?"
"<You're the god of dreams! Go in there, take control, then watch how your storytellers respond. Let them show you the power of imagination>." Somnus winked. "<Perhaps they will tell the tales more to your liking if you do>." He finished the apple and stretched. "<This was a delightful break but there are some stubborn fools in need of sleep>." He punched one hand into the other. "<And sleep they will>!"
He winked at Morpheus, who jerked awake in his chair. Somnus was gone.
Practice imagination. A great battle plan. Morpheus sighed. On the other hand, it's not like I can just blast him with a canon. He frowned at a sudden thought. Or can I?
