Marvel Novel Series 07 - Doctor Strange - Nightmare Read online

  “But the path ahead of you will be difficult, and fraught with danger.” The ancient mystic peered through the floating wisps of incense at the newest of his disciples. “Do you wish to continue?”

  Stephen Strange took a deep breath and made a commitment. “I do, Ancient One!”

  It began at once. The days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, then to years. He never noticed when Mordo was no longer seen around the mountainside castle, for he studied the mystic arts with a fervor that surprised him. Not even during examinations at the medical school had he worked so hard and for so long. Time meant nothing; he was often surprised to look out a window and find it day when he had thought it night, or spring when he had thought it still winter.

  Slowly he changed, though he was not even aware of the changes. The unshaven, desperate and nearly broken husk that had been the hopeless Stephen Strange became the confident Doctor Strange. He was no longer arrogant—the rigid discipline of the Ancient One had seen to that—and his life took on a deeper meaning, one that went far deeper than a mere desire to revenge himself on Mordo, or to protect the old teacher.

  Slowly he prepared himself for the battles ahead, and he had a feeling they would be epic battles—battles which could only be won by magic . . . and had to be won by Stephen Strange. His world became a world of candle flame illuminating ancient parchment, a world of canticles and spells, of learning what not to do as well as what to do—and when to do it. He found the insights into his own life, into his very existence, to be shocking and then strengthening. His contacts with beings and powers in other dimensions were frightening, but always he was guided and protected by the Ancient One. Then, on one of these forays into the unknown, he turned to the fragile wraith that was the Ancient One’s astral projection, and found he was not there.

  He almost panicked. Alone in formless blackness, which was pierced by the shimmering forms of a horde of creatures of light, he thought he had been abandoned.

  Then came the voice in his mind, the calm, reassuring voice of his master. “You have the strength. You have the power. Use it.”

  Strange turned, his hands striking out, fingers spread, stiff, and flickering with forks of light. “By the flames of the Faltine! Begone!”

  Crimson fire leaped from his fingertips, searing the very fabric of ebony space, curling it up, ripping through it to engulf the approaching darts of light, to turn them away, to banish them forever. The blackness faded to purple, to blue, to a lighter blue hung with the thick white clouds of the Himalayas. He was back, and safe.

  The Ancient One sat on a nearby rock. It was a thousand-foot drop to ice and snow. The winds howled in the white canyons, yet here, on the ledge, it was calm and sunny. Doctor Strange looked at his mentor. “I . . . I . . .”

  “You survived,” the Ancient One said. “You should go forth into the world.”

  Strange stared at him. “No, I can’t . . . I have so much to learn here . . .”

  The wrinkled hand gestured at the outer world beyond the snow-laden mountains. “There are things to learn out there. There are tests to meet. Adversaries to temper the steel within you. You should go.”

  They looked at each other, student and master. Then Strange had turned and walked down the ledge and into the stone temple. He left the mountainside retreat a short time later. Eventually he did meet Baron Mordo. They battled and Strange defeated him. But the insidious Mordo returned again and again.

  Stephen Strange shook his head to clear it and glanced at his beloved Clea. “I was thinking of . . .”

  “The Ancient One?”

  Strange nodded. Abruptly, he rose from his chair and strode to the window. “It is not Mordo . . . but . . . I do not know what it is. I sense only the faintest of . . . disturbances.”

  Clea nodded. It was often difficult to put such things into words. Words were confining things, static, meaning only one or two things at once. The disturbances in the very air that had somehow alerted Doctor Strange were not things to which words would stick. It was enough to know that Stephen Strange was alerted.

  Six

  Both Clea and Strange turned as they heard the chimes. Someone was at the front door. They saw Wong cross the parquet, then reappear in the doorway. “Master, there is a woman here, the wife of a minister of God.”

  “Give her something for whatever charity she represents,” Clea said, but a motion from Strange stopped her.

  “No, Wong, send her in.” He seemed oddly alert, almost like a dog ready to pounce.

  In a few moments a pleasant-looking woman came into Strange’s study. She looked at the two across the room, at their odd clothing, then around the room itself. Strange smiled faintly. To the uninitiated it was a . . . strange . . . room. There were bookcases, but instead of containing the latest bestsellers or coffee-table-type volumes on chic subjects, there were thick books bound with heavy board covers sheathed in carved leather. There were scrolls that looked as if they would crack if you touched them, and crumble to dust if you opened them for the first time in hundreds of years.

  Instead of bric-a-brac there were skulls bound in golden bands, their tops gone, and filled with . . . odd things. There were a few stoppered jars, a bust carved in marble, another cast in burnished silver and embossed with golden medallions about the base. Instead of family photos, there were framed portraits of holy men, and one, prominently displayed, of a very old Oriental. On a pedestal that looked as if it were carved by a madman, depicting curling dragons and reptilian forms, was a smoky sphere.

  The woman looked again at the two waiting people. Clea was beautiful, although much too provocative to suit her tastes, with stark white hair arranged in hornlike shapes on each side of her brows. A medallion hung between her breasts and there were ornate rings on her fingers. But it was the man who commanded her attention.

  “Doctor Strange?”

  “Yes, Madam?”

  “Doctor Stephen Strange?”

  He smiled and inclined his head. He was not young, though far from old, she decided. Handsome, but stern, wearing a mustache, and his temples were white—but his clothes were indeed startling and discomforting to the middle-aged woman. He wore a bright blue tunic over blue tights, and a red cape with a cowl that flared up with what she thought was unnecessary drama. The cape was edged in golden embroidery and held together at the throat by an odd large medallion.

  “Come in, sit down,” he said. “You are—?”

  “I’m . . . Mrs. Billie Joe Jacks.”

  “Ah,” Strange said.

  “You . . . you don’t know who he is, do you?”

  Strange smiled. “A minister of God.”

  “Yes. He . . . uh . . . we are on television mostly. From our . . . our Temple of Light, you know.”

  “Go on.” His eyes seemed to envelop her. She felt her nervousness disappear.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, Doctor? I mean, you look so different, I wasn’t certain, and I know it’s been years and the good Lord knows I don’t look the same, but—”

  “Alicia Lubbock,” he said, remembering.

  “You remembered!” She beamed at him.

  “You were my patient years ago. You had a most difficult time.”

  “You gave me a new heart. Doctor Barnard was just beginning to do the transplants then, and you saved me . . . for the Lord’s work.”

  “It was not so happy an occasion for the young accident victim whose heart we utilized,” Strange said. “But that is not the reason you came here.” Strange was sometimes made uncomfortable when reminded of those years spent as a highly paid and arrogant surgeon.

  “It’s my husband. You know, Billie Joe?” Strange gestured for her to go on. “He . . . he’s been acting very, excuse me, but acting strangely.”

  “In what way?” Strange asked softly.

  “He . . . he has these dreams—nightmares, really. He . . . says things. I can’t quite get it, but it . . . it doesn’t sound good to me. Oh, he’s had dreams before, you know, e
veryone does from time to time.” She looked around apprehensively. “But these are different, you know. And he’s been acting differently.”

  “In what way?” Clea asked.

  “Well, after one of these, well, nightmares I guess you’d call them, after one of those he’s . . . just different. Even his sermons are different. He used to, you know, preach the Good Book pretty straight. Not Fundamentalist, you understand, but a good solid Christian doctrine. We have quite an audience, all over the world.”

  “You assist him?” Strange asked.

  She nodded. “Offstage and on, if you follow me. I used to help prepare his sermons . . . You know, do research, look up the quotations to help make a point, that sort of thing? And I lead the Celestial Chorus . . . That’s our choir. But lately . . . well, lately Billie Joe’s been doing his sermons all himself, every word. He used to read them to me first, you know? Sort of test ’em out? But not anymore.”

  “What is it you want us to do?” Strange asked.

  Mrs. Jacks looked uncomfortable. “Well, what I’d really like is for Billie Joe to go to one of them head-shrinkers, you know? Psychiatrists? But he’d never do that. He said a man ought to have his head examined going to one of them fellas.” She smiled briefly. “But I remembered you, Doctor, and it isn’t all old memories, either. I’ve . . . heard things about you. I think you might be the one to help my Billie Joe.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Alicia.” Strange smiled warmly and took her hand. “Can he come here? Soon?”

  “Well, we’re in town for a meeting.” She flashed another brief smile. “A kind of religious summit, you might say. Billie, he says we oughta meet on Zion, over there in the Holy Land, but that might give us all snooty ideas.” She flashed another nervous smile. “Doctor Strange, I . . .”

  “Go on, Alicia.” His eyes bored into hers.

  “You’ll see him then?” Strange nodded.

  “As soon as you can get him here.”

  “I’ll have him here in an hour.”

  “Not in this traffic you won’t,” Clea said.

  “An hour and a half then,” Alicia said stubbornly. “He’ll come or I’ll . . . I’ll . . . do something!”

  Strange smiled and took her elbow. “As soon as you can, then. We’ll be waiting.”

  The moment Alicia Jacks had gone, Clea turned to Strange. “Stephen, what was that? The next thing you know you’ll be taking house calls.”

  “If I must,” he muttered as he went back into his study. He sank into his big chair with such an expression of intense concentration that Clea knew better than to discuss it further.

  Seven

  “By the rocks of Arrak, Alicia, I certainly do not need any mumbo-jumbo charlatan in my life!”

  “Now, Billie Joe, you just get right in there. Doctor’s been waiting on you.”

  They came through the door into the study, ushered by the silent Wong, and Billy Joe Jacks took in the arcane furnishings with a frown. “Where’s your bell, book, and candle, Strange? Where’s your feather mask and your rattle, eh?” He flicked his fingers at the thick, heavy cover of a fat old volume atop a pile on Strange’s desk. “What’s this, eh? Some sort of law book about deals with the Devil, huh?”

  Strange said nothing, but his study of the evangelist was very complete. Doctors can learn a great deal more just by looking at a patient and feeling his skin than the layman thinks. Strange crossed the room and courteously extended his hand. “I’m Stephen Strange,” he said. “This is Clea, my assistant.”

  “How do you do,” Billie Joe Jacks said listlessly. He accepted Strange’s offer of a chair and sat down, followed by Alicia, then Clea, nearby. Strange stood, studying Jacks. He appeared exhausted, irritated, and nervous, the latter manifestations caused perhaps by the first.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Strange said.

  “Go on, get it over with; then I can go home. Well, back to the hotel, anyway. Sometimes it seems as if I live in hotels!”

  “How do you feel, generally?”

  “I feel fine. A little tired, maybe, but I’ll be up for the meeting. Jet lag probably. The work of the Lord is not always easy, you know.” He glared at Strange, who thought his eyes red. “But just get me out there in front of those cameras and the will of the Lord comes into me, guides me, makes me his tool!”

  “Billie Joe’s extraordinarily good, you know. Not everyone can use a camera like he can,” Mrs. Jacks said softly.

  “Not sleeping much then?” Strange asked casually.

  “No, but there are a lot of things brewing. We just might get a consolidation with the Brotherhood of American Protestants; will that be a thorn in the side of Satan! Then there’re the overtures from Pope John Paul—the Pope, no less! He’s had the Archbishop of Canterbury over. He’s talking with others, so why not Billie Joe Jacks, eh? Big things afoot, you see? We’re going into Brazil with our syndicated programs, both radio and television. Brazil, mind you! Lots afoot, lots cooking, as they say. Working for the Lord. Putting it all together. Making it work, eh? Isn’t that the American way, eh? Getting folks to work together? Doing the work of the Lord!”

  Jacks’s voice had risen and grown stronger during his monologue, to the point where Stephen Strange saw the power this man had. It was the power of a magnetic personality with a belief. It was a strong power, belief, even if what he believed was not what Strange believed and knew to be true. But it was definitely a power to persuade. Strange leaned forward, his fingers toying with the great medallion around his neck.

  The medallion was the Eye of Agamotto, the most powerful physical legacy that the Ancient One had given Stephen Strange.

  The evangelist talked on . . . Conversions . . . miracles of faith . . . numbers . . . believers . . . testaments . . . gigantic encampments . . . revivals of the spirit of God . . . movements sweeping the nation with Billie Joe Jacks leading them, focusing their energy . . .

  His voice slowed. Alicia’s eyes drooped and suddenly she was asleep. But Billie Joe continued. “This summit meeting, this locus of temporal power, this . . . will . . . bring together . . . the most powerful of . . . of all the . . . the factions . . . heal our divisions . . . with the . . . the blessings of . . . of the . . .”

  Abruptly his head dropped. He was asleep. Gently, Strange moved his head back to a more comfortable position. The Eye had done its work. They would be asleep as long as needed for his explorations.

  Stephen Strange sat back in his chair and gave Clea a quick smile. He knew what he was about to do made her very nervous. When Stephen Strange projected his astral form out of his physical body, that body was helpless, totally vulnerable. If someone were to kill the physical body of Stephen Strange, his astral self would be lost forever; forever doomed to roam in strange dimensions. Here, in his Greenwich Village home, the place he called his sanctum sanctorum, he was relatively safe. But it still made Clea nervous and he smiled inwardly to see her setting herself to be the guardian of his lifeless husk. Clea had powers too, and, although not nearly as powerful as Stephen Strange, she was not to be discounted, either, as many had discovered.

  He closed his eyes and relaxed his body. The trance took only seconds. He rose up almost at once, glancing down to see his mortal flesh slump slightly. Invisible to all, including Clea, he curved through the air, near the carved, wooden ceiling beams, and dove into Billie Joe Jacks’s dream.

  Eight

  . . . Disorientation . . .

  . . . the private world of private symbols . . .

  . . . intensely personal shorthand, to be learned, quickly before the dream destroyed him . . .

  Strange coped. His mind, quick and analytical, sorted out the swirl of colors and shapes. The dream took shape, like a lens twisting into focus.

  Clouds . . . sky . . . cool dry air . . . the hint of green earth far below . . . speed . . . Moving through the thunderheads, past the mountainous gray-white masses, between tenuous walls, through dark passes, over sunlit plains, to—


  —to?

  . . . to?

  The goal seemed vague, unfocused . . . No, hidden, uncertain, distant . . .

  The wind stirred the thickening clouds, moving the wet masses up and around, sculpting them, and still Strange flew through the mind dream toward—

  —toward?

  . . . toward?

  The wind drew a curtain of gray mist across the path he was taking and Strange arrowed on, his astral body rocketing through the cooling atmosphere. The gray wall of cloud loomed over him, a mile high, miles wide, light enough to float, strong enough to carry uncounted tons of water high into the air.

  Strange entered the cloud confidently. He expected the sunlight to appear almost at once. He had skimmed through earlier veils of mist and emerged into the bright clear light, but this cloud seemed endless. He had misjudged the thickness. He willed his astral body up. He would rise above it, still aiming toward that distant, unseen goal, only . . .

  . . . only . . .

  . . . only there was no end, no bursting into light, merely a thickening, a darkening.

  It grew cold. There was no up, no down, no gravity—no . . . anything. Suddenly, Stephen Strange realized he was not feeling. He was in his astral body, yet that body had the capability of feeling its environment, and he felt nothing.

  “By the omnipotent Oshtur!” He willed himself to stop and felt that he did—but he was not certain. He willed his body to rise, fleeing upward toward the light.

  Only there was no light, and it was colder, darker, and the very air seemed thicker. If fact, he realized, the gray mist in which he flew actually was thickening. His passage seemed to be slower, but his physical feelings even less noticable. The focus of his mind and eyes seemed to fixate. He seemed to be soaring through a gray tunnel with more gray at the end.

  “By the eternal Vishanti!” he roared—and realized he had not heard his voice, only thought he had because he had spoken. “May the Shields of the Seraphim protect me!” he exclaimed, making the gestures of ritual precision. Glowing dots formed in the air around him, haloed by the mist, and the dots grew into glowing discs. The shimmering discs floated above and below and to every side, seven shining protectors.