We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream. - Peter S. Beagle, The Last Unicorn

Very few people, no matter how many hours of sleep they have had, are at all eager to wake up. Indeed, the more hours they have slept, the more tired they often are when they wake. This was the case with Hjalmar. He reluctantly drifted out of sleep and into the half-doze between waking and sleeping. Though a chill had crept into the wind and a tree-root was digging into his shoulder-blade, he felt so tired that instead of getting up and continuing his journey, he lay still and tried to fall asleep again.

A high-pitched whistle broke rudely through his doze. He muttered several uncomplimentary words about whatever bird was responsible. The whistling continued. And now that he was awake enough to notice, he realised it was the tune of an old song he had heard his grandmother sing.

He opened his eyes to see what on earth was making that noise. What he saw woke him up immediately. His mouth dropped open and he stared in unabashed astonishment.

"Who are you?"

"Ah, you're awake. Good," said the strange figure opposite with an air of relief. "I was afraid you were under some sort of sleeping spell."

Hjalmar spluttered. "Spell -- you thought -- who are you? And why were you watching me sleep?"

"My name is Solvej. As I said, I thought you were under a spell. Well, I believed it was a possibility. I've forgotten how much sleep mortals require, so I couldn't be sure."

Hjalmar gaped at her, then at her outlandish outfit. His first thought was that this was some bizarre prank. No one wore clothes like that any more. His second thought was that he was dealing with an escaped lunatic. Solvej, if that was indeed her name, seemed to guess the path his thoughts took.

"I assure you, I am not mad. Now, you know my name; might I ask yours?"

It took Hjalmar a moment to recover enough to realise she'd asked him a question. "What? Oh, my name. I am Hjalmar, and if you don't mind, I'll be on my way now."

Thoroughly rattled and wondering if he was asleep and dreaming, he shouldered his bag and set off. The sound of footsteps behind him warned him that Solvej was following.

"Where are we going?" Solvej asked curiously.

"We?" Hjalmar echoed, stopping to stare at her. "We are not going anywhere. I am going to the capital to make my fortune, and you are going right back home! ...Wherever that may be."

"I don't think I want to go back to that coffin," Solvej said meditatively. Hjalmar made a noise like a cat whose tail had been trodden on. His suspicions that Solvej was mad had just been confirmed. "Besides, you helped me, so I will help you."

"When did I help you?" Hjalmar asked, backing away slowly.

"Last night, when you frightened off those would-be robbers."

His lower jaw made a spirited effort to reach the ground. "How... how can you know about that? Were you there?" His voice took on a high-pitched, panicked edge as new and increasingly horrible possibilities presented themselves. "Have you been stalking me?"

Solvej sighed in a put-upon way. "Of course I was there, and of course not. Are you stupid? That was my coffin they tried to rob."

~~~~

The sun was much lower than it should be, Hjalmar noted dazedly. It was just touching the horizon, yet he could have sworn that he hadn't been asleep that long. He shook his head to clear it. That strange dream he'd had was making him confused. That had to be it.

"Finally! It will take us a century or two before we reach the capital at this rate."

Hjalmar froze. No. No, he couldn't possibly have heard that. He'd fallen asleep and had a truly bizarre dream, that was all. Solvej did not exist, she had not threatened to follow him, and she had certainly not claimed to be the ghost of whoever was in that coffin.

"Well? Are you going to lie there all night?"

Solvej, damn her, didn't have the decency to realise he had just assured himself she didn't exist.

He raised his head reluctantly. Solvej was there, perched on top of a fence, large as life and twice as old-fashioned. He stared at her silently for several long minutes. Then he closed his eyes and let his head fall to the ground again with a low, drawn-out groan.

"This isn't a dream, is it." It wasn't a question.

"I certainly hope not!" Solvej sounded offended by the mere suggestion. "I have plans for the future, and if I were merely a figment of someone's imagination I would never be able to achieve them, would I?"

Hjalmar tried to make sense of that statement. He gave up in despair.

"Are you really a ghost?" he asked instead. "And what happened? Why am I lying here?"

"You fainted. And yes, I'm a ghost. Ghost, spectre, undead, whatever you want to call me. Personally I'd rather just be called Solvej. It's my name, after all, and less likely to bring the exorcists running." Hjalmar groaned again. "Are you alright? You look awful."

"Oh, I'm fine," he said with heavy sarcasm. "I've woken up to find a ghost watching me -- twice! -- and a ghost who's apparently insane, at that, but I'm just fine."

"Good." Solvej seemed oblivious to his sarcasm. "Well then, get up and let's be off."

A choice lay before Hjalmar. He could stay here, lying on the ground, praying to God and all the saints that he would wake up and find this was all a ridiculous dream. That path would lead only to embarrassment and would not change or help anything. Or he could get up and go on, and try to cope with this bewildering situation.

He chose the second option.

~~~~

The kingdom of Vardiholm was not a large kingdom, or a very important one. It was located in the northwest corner of the continent of Ornwald, bordered by the countries of Athyen and Trauneheim. Many centuries ago it had been settled by farmers and explorers from the island kingdom of Ivarfell, and its inhabitants were their descendants. Their language had once been a dialect of Ivarfell, but influences from the languages of the surrounding countries had crept in until Vardiholmish was a separate language.

That was all Hjalmar knew about his country's ancient history. Had he asked Solvej, she could have told him considerably more.

She could have told him, for instance, that the land had been inhabited long before the Ivarfellese came. She could have told him about the fauns, satyrs, centaurs, elves, dwarves, and many other creatures that had dwelt there. She could have spoken of animals that resembled no living animal, or of the alien and terrible Fair Folk who still lurked in the shadowy corners of the forest. She could have told him of how some of the human settlers married elves or dwarves, and how their descendants, called witches or wizards nowadays, had magical powers.

She could have told him all this. Perhaps in the months to come it would have been better if she had told him. But she never thought of it, and instead quizzed him on the events of the last century.

"How should I know who was Prime Minister seventy years ago?" Hjalmar asked, exasperated. "I can hardly remember who the Prime Minister is now!"

"Well, what about laws? Have there been any new laws passed recently?"

"I dare say there have, but I have no interest in them. Occasionally I'd see one mentioned in a newspaper -- like just last month there was a new fishing law, something about throwing back a certain number of fish -- but otherwise I don't know and don't care."

Solvej sighed as if she found her travelling companion's ignorance wearisome. "I had hoped you'd be able to tell me more. Can you at least say if my clothes are too old-fashioned? Will I stand out in them?"

She sounded as if she quite liked the prospect of standing out.

"You'll certainly look unusual," Hjalmar said after a pause, as he tried to remember what most women wore. Being a man, he had never given the subject much thought beyond the damage his sisters did to their finances every time they wanted a new dress. "I think puffed sleeves are popular now. Heaven knows my sisters demanded them so often that they must be the height of fashion."

"Puffed sleeves? Those are back in fashion?" Solvej stared at him, her eyes wide. "When I died, no one younger than my grandmother wore them."

Somehow Hjalmar found it hard to picture Solvej having parents, let alone grandparents. When one met people who seemed to be right out of fairy tales -- and not necessarily the sort of fairy tale where the knight slew the dragon and everyone lived happily ever after, but the sort where the hero died in spite of all his bravery or the fairies succeeded in stealing the children -- one never thought of them as having relatives. He found it impossible to imagine Solvej as a child, and his attempt at imagining her grandmother conjured an image of his own grandmother in Solvej's clothes.

"Why do you laugh?" Solvej asked curiously. An offended note crept into her voice. "Do you find my ignorance comical?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I just had a funny thought." Hjalmar stifled his laughter with some difficulty.

To distract himself he retrieved his map from his pack and squinted at it. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon, its last rays turning the sky vibrant shades of orange and purple but providing little light to read by.

"We're less than a mile from the nearest town," he said at last. "We won't reach it before nightfall. Unless you're able to instantly move from one place to another?"

"Teleportation, you mean? No, that is beyond my powers." He sighed. So much for that idea. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't nightfall already come?"

He looked blankly at her, then at the sun's rapidly fading rays. "...Oh. So it has." Feeling foolish, he added, "Well, let's be off."

Lighting his lantern, he set off. Solvej followed, her footfalls eerily silent.

~~~~

The town was larger than Hjalmar's home town, and much noisier. At home shops closed up shortly after sunset. Here they were still open and people were still milling about, illuminated by the light of lampposts set up along the pavements.

"Excuse me, sir," Hjalmar said to a fruit seller, "but could you tell me where I can find an inn?"

"There's one down the street a bit," the fruit seller said, gesturing with an apple in his hand. "The Silver Flute Inn, it's called. Can't speak for what their rooms are like, for I've ne'er stayed there meself, but they've better food than you'll find in fancy restaurants."

Hjalmar thanked him and set off in search of the Silver Flute Inn. Solvej followed, as silent and ever-present as his shadow. He couldn't decide what alarmed him more about her: her appearance and insistence on accompanying him, her odd questions (those, at least, he could excuse), or how quiet she could be when she wanted to. Since they came within sight of the town she had walked a step behind him, and made so little noise that several times the idea occurred to him that she might have vanished while he wasn't looking. She hadn't. She was always there when he looked back, examining at their surroundings with the curiosity of a tourist in a foreign country, but she never made a sound.

The night air was cold. His every exhale left a cloud of mist hovering in the air. A chill wind whistled past them, making Hjalmar shiver and raising goosebumps on his arms.

"If anyone asks," Solvej spoke up for the first time since they entered the city. Hjalmar started violently. He had been imagining a good meal, a hot bath and a nice warm bed, and had quite forgotten his unusual companion, "we are brother and sister. That should prevent anyone asking questions."

Hjalmar eyed her dubiously. They both had brown hair, but that was where the resemblance ended. His eyes were blue, hers were brown. His skin was slightly tanned, hers was pale for obvious reasons. His face was a different shape than hers. Her accent was strange to his ears. And then, of course, there were her clothes.

"Well?" she asked as he continued to stare at her. She impatiently tapped her foot against the pavement. "Is something wrong?"

"Solvej... no one will ever believe we're brother and sister. We don't look enough alike."

"Trust me, they'll believe anything they're told. Mortals are like that. Now move along. We're blocking the pavement."

Hjalmar gave up with a sigh. He suspected he would be losing a good many arguments in future.

~~~~

The Silver Flute Inn was a small brick building with flowerpots on its windowsills, tables and chairs on the pavement outside, and a wooden sign depicting a silver flute hanging over the door. A delicious smell of soup, meat, and other types of food wafted through the open door, and a clamour of cheerful voices could be heard within.

Inside it was clean and brightly-painted. Groups of friends crowded around tables, gossiping about the latest wedding, funeral or scandal. Workmen, their work finished for the day, discussed what they had to do tomorrow. Serving boys and girls brought people their orders. The whole place had a warm, cheerful air about it.

Hjalmar made his way to the bar, where the innkeeper was embroiled in a debate with a cook. He politely tried not to listen, but was unable to avoid hearing enough of the conversation to know the cook wanted the innkeeper to tell some customers to watch their language when the cook's children were in hearing range; the innkeeper protested that the customers in question worked for the mayor and were very important people; and the cook threatened to go out there and wallop them over the head with her spoon if he didn't do something.

"We'll be standing here all night at this rate," Solvej muttered as the discussion continued.

She cleared her throat. The discussion halted as both innkeeper and cook realised they had an audience.

The innkeeper turned to them. "May I help you?"

"Have you two rooms my brother and I could rent for the night?" Solvej asked sweetly. It was almost frightening, how she could appear so young and innocent that one wanted to do anything she asked.

Hjalmar resolved to consider this in more depth later. If she could make someone do whatever she wanted... The possibilities were terrifying.

"Certainly, miss," the innkeeper was saying. "Kjeld will show you to your rooms. Would you like anything to eat?"

~~~~

Some people believe that fate is a person or several people, who decided the courses of everyone's lives long ago. Others believe that life is nothing but a string of coincidences, that no one has any purpose or destiny and nothing is in control. Whatever the truth is, events will happen that will set one on paths one would never have thought of taking on their own. These events tend to happen at unexpected, unfortunate or just plain inconvenient times, suggesting that if there is someone in control, they have a strange sense of humour.

There are few things more likely to cause one of these events than by thinking one has everything planned out and nothing can go wrong. One might as well shout at the heavens, "Here I am! Do your worst!" The challenge will usually be accepted.

Hjalmar was about to learn this for himself.

The fruit seller's praise of the Silver Flute Inn's food proved justified. After a bowl of soup and a sandwich, Hjalmar felt much happier and far less inclined to take the worst view of things. Tomorrow he would reach the capital and find a job, and hopefully Solvej would leave and return to wherever ghosts went when not haunting people.

As these happy thoughts occurred to him, Fate -- or Coincidence, if you prefer -- decided to step in.

"Have you heard the princess is ill?" a man at one table shouted to his friend seated at the bar. "Søren here thinks it's divine retribution."

"Well, you have to admit she deserves it," said the man next to the one who had spoken. "She's evil, despite all that nonsense about her being cursed. Why, just last month one of her suitors died because of her!"

Hjalmar listened in astonishment.

"What's this about a cursed princess?" he asked aloud.

"Why ask me?" Solvej replied, looking bored with the entire discussion. "I'm too old to know about this."

"I don't think the princess is ill at all," said the man at the bar. "I think the King and Queen are keeping her locked up, and good for them if they are."

There was a chorus of shouted -- and slightly intoxicated -- agreement.

"What are they talking about?" Hjalmar asked a passing servant girl. "What princess? Is she really cursed?"

The serving girl looked surprised. "Why, Princess Rigmor, of course. Don't you know the story?"

"I've never heard of Princess Rigmor, or any story about her," Hjalmar admitted, embarrassed. News and gossip from the capital rarely reached his hometown. He knew the King and Queen had at least one child, but knew nothing else about the royal family.

The serving girl was more than happy to enlighten him.

"They say," she began, "that the Queen could not have a child, so she asked the help of a magician. The magician told her she would have a child, and when it was born it would be his servant. So the child was born, and the magician came to claim it, but the King turned him away, so he cursed the princess, and every man who tries to court her will meet a horrible death. That's what they say, anyway."

The serving girl was called away, and Hjalmar was left to wonder at what she had said.

"What a strange story!" he observed. "It can't be true, I suppose."

"Of course it's not true," Solvej agreed. Had he listened more closely he would have heard a slightly sarcastic tone in her voice. "What would you say to marrying Princess Rigmor?"

Hjalmar laughed. "Me, marry a possibly-cursed Princess? That would make an interesting story to tell my mother!"

"Yes," Solvej said in a curiously meditative voice. "It would."