document: Henry Slesar, young New York advertising executive and by now no
   longer a new-comer to either this magazine or to this field, describes
   a strange little town that you, yourself, may blunder into one of these
   evenings. But, if you do, beware—beware of the Knights!
   
  
  
    dream town
   
  
   by ... HENRY SLESAR
   
  
  
  
    The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Who
   was to tell she had some rather startling interests?
   
   
   The
   woman in the
   doorway looked like Mom in
   the homier political cartoons.
   She was plump, apple-cheeked,
   white-haired. She
   wore a fussy, old-fashioned
   nightgown, and was busily
   clutching a worn house-robe
   around her expansive middle.
   She blinked at Sol Becker's
   rain-flattened hair and hang-dog
   expression, and said:
  "What is it? What do you
   want?"
   
   "I'm sorry—" Sol's voice
   was pained. "The man in the
   diner said you might put me
   up. I had my car stolen: a
   hitchhiker; going to Salinas ..."
   He was puffing.
   
   "Hitchhiker? I don't understand."
   She clucked at the
   sight of the pool of water he
   was creating in her foyer.
  "Well, come inside, for heaven's
   sake. You're soaking!"
   
   "Thanks," Sol said gratefully.
   
   With the door firmly shut
   behind him, the warm interior
   of the little house covered
   him like a blanket. He
   shivered, and let the warmth
   seep over him. "I'm terribly
   sorry. I know how late it is."
   He looked at his watch, but
   the face was too misty to
   make out the hour.
   
   "Must be nearly three," the
   woman sniffed. "You couldn't
   have come at a worse time. I
   was just on my way to
   court—"
   
   The words slid by him. "If
   I could just stay overnight.
   Until the morning. I could
   call some friends in San Fernando.
   I'm very susceptible to
   head colds," he added inanely.
   
   "Well, take those shoes off,
   first," the woman grumbled.
  "You can undress in the parlor,
   if you'll keep off the rug.
   You won't mind using the
   sofa?"
   
   "No, of course not. I'd be
   happy to pay—"
   
   "Oh, tush, nobody's asking
   you to pay. This isn't a hotel.
   You mind if I go back upstairs?
   They're gonna miss
   me at the palace."
   
   "No, of course not," Sol
   said. He followed her into
   the darkened parlor, and
   watched as she turned the
   screw on a hurricane-style
   lamp, shedding a yellow pool
   of light over half a flowery
   sofa and a doily-covered wing
   chair. "You go on up. I'll be
   perfectly fine."
   
   "Guess you can use a towel,
   though. I'll get you one,
   then I'm going up. We wake
   pretty early in this house.
   Breakfast's at seven; you'll
   have to be up if you want
   any."
   
   "I really can't thank you
   enough—"
   
   "Tush," the woman said.
   She scurried out, and returned
   a moment later with a
   thick bath towel. "Sorry I
   can't give you any bedding.
   But you'll find it nice and
   warm in here." She squinted
   at the dim face of a ship's-wheel
   clock on the mantle,
   and made a noise with her
   tongue. "Three-thirty!" she
   exclaimed. "I'll miss the
   whole execution ..."
   
   "The what?"
   
   "Goodnight, young man,"
   Mom said firmly.
   
   She padded off, leaving Sol
   holding the towel. He patted
   his face, and then scrubbed
   the wet tangle of brown hair.
   Carefully, he stepped off the
   carpet and onto the stone
   floor in front of the fireplace.
   He removed his
   drenched coat and suit jacket,
   and squeezed water out
   over the ashes.
   
   He stripped down to his
   underwear, wondering about
   next morning's possible embarrassment,
   and decided to
   use the damp bath towel as a
   blanket. The sofa was downy
   and comfortable. He curled
   up under the towel, shivered
   once, and closed his eyes.
   
   
   
   He
   was tired and very
   sleepy, and his customary
   nightly review was limited to
   a few detached thoughts
   about the wedding he was
   supposed to attend in Salinas
   that weekend ... the hoodlum
   who had responded to his
   good-nature by dumping him
   out of his own car ... the slogging
   walk to the village ...
   the little round woman who
   was hurrying off, like the
   White Rabbit, to some mysterious
   appointment on the
   upper floor ...
   
   Then he went to sleep.
   
   A voice awoke him, shrill
   and questioning.
   
   "Are you nakkid ?"
   
   His eyes flew open, and he
   pulled the towel protectively
   around his body and glared
   at the little girl with the rust-red
   pigtails.
   
   "Huh, mister?" she said,
   pushing a finger against her
   freckled nose. "Are you?"
   
   "No," he said angrily. "I'm
   not naked. Will you please
   go away?"
   
   "Sally!" It was Mom, appearing
   in the doorway of the
   parlor. "You leave the gentleman
   alone." She went off
   again.
   
   "Yes," Sol said. "Please let
   me get dressed. If you don't
   mind." The girl didn't move.
  "What time is it?"
   
   "Dunno," Sally shrugged.
  "I like poached eggs. They're
   my favorite eggs in the whole
   world."
   
   "That's good," Sol said desperately.
  "Now why don't you
   be a good girl and eat your
   poached eggs. In the kitchen."
   
   "Ain't ready yet. You going
   to stay for breakfast?"
   
   "I'm not going to do anything
   until you get out of
   here."
   
   She put the end of a pigtail
   in her mouth and sat down on
   the chair opposite. "I went to
   the palace last night. They
   had an exelution."
   
   "Please," Sol groaned. "Be
   a good girl, Sally. If you let
   me get dressed, I'll show you
   how to take your thumb off."
   
   "Oh, that's an old trick. Did
   you ever see an exelution?"
   
   "No. Did you ever see a little
   girl with her hide
   tanned?"
   
   "Huh?"
   
   " Sally! " Mom again, sterner.
  "You get out of there, or
   you-know-what ..."
   
   "Okay," the girl said
   blithely. "I'm goin' to the palace
   again. If I brush my
   teeth. Aren't you ever gonna
   get up?" She skipped out of
   the room, and Sol hastily sat
   up and reached for his
   trousers.
   
   When he had dressed, the
   clothes still damp and unpleasant
   against his skin, he
   went out of the parlor and
   found the kitchen. Mom was
   busy at the stove. He said:
  "Good morning."
   
   "Breakfast in ten minutes,"
   she said cheerfully. "You like
   poached eggs?"
   
   "Sure. Do you have a telephone?"
   
   "In the hallway. Party line,
   so you may have to wait."
   
   He tried for fifteen minutes
   to get through, but there
   was a woman on the line who
   was terribly upset about a
   cotton dress she had ordered
   from Sears, and was telling
   the world about it.
   
   Finally, he got his call
   through to Salinas, and a
   sleepy-voiced Fred, his old
   Army buddy, listened somewhat
   indifferently to his tale
   of woe. "I might miss the
   wedding," Sol said unhappily.
  "I'm awfully sorry." Fred
   didn't seem to be half as sorry
   as he was. When Sol hung
   up, he was feeling more despondent
   than ever.
   
   A man, tall and rangy, with
   a bobbing Adam's apple and
   a lined face, came into the
   hallway. "Hullo?" he said inquiringly.
  "You the fella had
   the car stolen?"
   
   "Yes."
   
   The man scratched his ear.
  "Take you over to Sheriff
   Coogan after breakfast. He'll
   let the Stateys know about it.
   My name's Dawes."
   
   Sol accepted a careful
   handshake.
   
   "Don't get many people
   comin' into town," Dawes
   said, looking at him curiously.
  "Ain't seen a stranger in
   years. But you look like the
   rest of us." He chuckled.
   
   Mom called out: "Breakfast!"
   
   
   
   At
   the table, Dawes
   asked his destination.
   
   "Wedding in Salinas," he
   explained. "Old Army friend
   of mine. I picked this hitchhiker
   up about two miles from
   here. He seemed okay."
   
   "Never can tell," Dawes
   said placidly, munching egg.
  "Hey, Ma. That why you
   were so late comin' to court
   last night?"
   
   "That's right, Pa." She
   poured the blackest coffee
   Sol had ever seen. "Didn't
   miss much, though."
   
   "What court is that?" Sol
   asked politely, his mouth full.
   
   "Umagum," Sally said, a
   piece of toast sticking out
   from the side of her mouth.
  "Don't you know nothin' ?"
   
   " Arma gon," Dawes corrected.
   He looked sheepishly at
   the stranger. "Don't expect
   Mister—" He cocked an eyebrow.
  "What's the name?"
   
   "Becker."
   
   "Don't expect Mr. Becker
   knows anything about Armagon.
   It's just a dream, you
   know." He smiled apologetically.
   
   "Dream? You mean this—Armagon
   is a place you dream
   about?"
   
   "Yep," Dawes said. He lifted
   cup to lip. "Great coffee,
   Ma." He leaned back with a
   contented sigh. "Dream about
   it every night. Got so used to
   the place, I get all confused
   in the daytime."
   
   Mom said: "I get muddle-headed
   too, sometimes."
   
   "You mean—" Sol put his
   napkin in his lap. "You mean you dream about the same
   place?"
   
   "Sure," Sally piped. "We
   all go there at night. I'm goin'
   to the palace again, too."
   
   "If you brush your teeth,"
   Mom said primly.
   
   "If I brush my teeth. Boy,
   you shoulda seen the exelution!"
   
   "Execution," her father
   said.
   
   "Oh, my goodness!" Mom
   got up hastily. "That reminds
   me. I gotta call poor Mrs.
   Brundage. It's the least I
   could do."
   
   "Good idea," Dawes nodded.
  "And I'll have to round
   up some folks and get old
   Brundage out of there."
   
   Sol was staring. He opened
   his mouth, but couldn't think
   of the right question to ask.
   Then he blurted out: "What
   execution?"
   
   "None of your business,"
   the man said coldly. "You eat
   up, young man. If you want
   me to get Sheriff Coogan
   lookin' for your car."
   
   The rest of the meal went
   silently, except for Sally's insistence
   upon singing her
   school song between mouthfuls.
   When Dawes was
   through, he pushed back his
   plate and ordered Sol to get
   ready.
   
   Sol grabbed his topcoat and
   followed the man out the
   door.
   
   "Have to stop someplace
   first," Dawes said. "But we'll
   be pickin' up the Sheriff on
   the way. Okay with you?"
   
   "Fine," Sol said uneasily.
   
   The rain had stopped, but
   the heavy clouds seemed reluctant
   to leave the skies over
   the small town. There was a
   skittish breeze blowing, and
   Sol Becker tightened the collar
   of his coat around his
   neck as he tried to keep up
   with the fast-stepping Dawes.
   
   
   
   They
   crossed the
   street diagonally, and entered
   a two-story wooden building.
   Dawes took the stairs at a
   brisk pace, and pushed open
   the door on the second floor.
   A fat man looked up from
   behind a desk.
   
   "Hi, Charlie. Thought I'd
   see if you wanted to help
   move Brundage."
   
   The man batted his eyes.
  "Oh, Brundage!" he said.
  "You know, I clean forgot
   about him?" He laughed.
  "Imagine me forgetting
   that?"
   
   "Yeah." Dawes wasn't
   amused. "And you Prince Regent."
   
   "Aw, Willie—"
   
   "Well, come on. Stir that
   fat carcass. Gotta pick up
   Sheriff Coogan, too. This
   here gentleman has to see him
   about somethin' else."
   
   The man regarded Sol suspiciously.
  "Never seen you
   before. Night or day. Stranger?"
   
   "Come on !" Dawes said.
   
   The fat man grunted and
   hoisted himself out of the
   swivel chair. He followed
   lamely behind the two men
   as they went out into the
   street again.
   
   A woman, with an empty
   market basket, nodded casually
   to them. "Mornin', folks.
   Enjoyed it last night.
   Thought you made a right
   nice speech, Mr. Dawes."
   
   "Thanks," Dawes answered
   gruffly, but obviously flattered.
  "We were just goin'
   over to Brundage's to pick up
   the body. Ma's gonna pay a
   call on Mrs. Brundage around
   ten o'clock. You care to visit?"
   
   "Why, I think that's very
   nice," the woman said. "I'll
   be sure and do that." She
   smiled at the fat man. "Mornin',
   Prince."
   
   Sol's head was spinning. As
   they left the woman and continued
   their determined
   march down the quiet street,
   he tried to find answers.
   
   "Look, Mr. Dawes." He was
   panting; the pace was fast.
  "Does she dream about this—Armagon,
   too? That woman
   back there?"
   
   "Yep."
   
   Charlie chuckled. "He's a
   stranger, all right."
   
   "And you, Mr.—" Sol
   turned to the fat man. "You
   also know about this palace
   and everything?"
   
   "I told you," Dawes said
   testily. "Charlie here's Prince
   Regent. But don't let the fancy
   title fool you. He got no
   more power than any Knight
   of the Realm. He's just too
   dern fat to do much more'n
   sit on a throne and eat grapes.
   That right, Charlie?"
   
   The fat man giggled.
   
   "Here's the Sheriff," Dawes
   said.
   
   The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyed
   citizen with a long, sad face,
   was rocking on a porch as
   they approached his house,
   trying to puff a half-lit pipe.
   He lifted one hand wearily
   when he saw them.
   
   "Hi, Cookie," Dawes
   grinned. "Thought you, me,
   and Charlie would get Brundage's
   body outa the house.
   This here's Mr. Becker; he
   got another problem. Mr.
   Becker, meet Cookie Coogan."
   
   The Sheriff joined the procession,
   pausing only once to
   inquire into Sol's predicament.
   
   He described the hitchhiker
   incident, but Coogan
   listened stoically. He murmured
   something about the
   Troopers, and shuffled alongside
   the puffing fat man.
   
   Sol soon realized that their
   destination was a barber shop.
   
   Dawes cupped his hands
   over the plate glass and
   peered inside. Gold letters on
   the glass advertised: HAIRCUT
   SHAVE & MASSAGE
   PARLOR. He reported: "Nobody
   in the shop. Must be
   upstairs."
   
   
   
   The
   fat man rang the
   bell. It was a while before an
   answer came.
   
   It was a reedy woman in a
   housecoat, her hair in curlers,
   her eyes red and swollen.
   
   "Now, now," Dawes said
   gently. "Don't you take on
   like that, Mrs. Brundage. You
   heard the charges. It hadda
   be this way."
   
   "My poor Vincent," she
   sobbed.
   
   "Better let us up," the
   Sheriff said kindly. "No use
   just lettin' him lay there,
   Mrs. Brundage."
   
   "He didn't mean no harm,"
   the woman snuffled. "He was
   just purely ornery, Vincent
   was. Just plain mean stubborn."
   
   "The law's the law," the
   fat man sighed.
   
   Sol couldn't hold himself
   in.
   
   "What law? Who's dead?
   How did it happen?"
   
   Dawes looked at him disgustedly.
  "Now is it any of your business? I mean, is it?"
   
   "I don't know," Sol said
   miserably.
   
   "You better stay out of
   this," the Sheriff warned.
  "This is a local matter, young
   man. You better stay in the
   shop while we go up."
   
   They filed past him and the
   crying Mrs. Brundage.
   
   When they were out of
   sight, Sol pleaded with her.
   
   "What happened? How did
   your husband die?"
   
   "Please ..."
   
   "You must tell me! Was it
   something to do with Armagon?
   Do you dream about the
   place, too?"
   
   She was shocked at the
   question. "Of course!"
   
   "And your husband? Did
   he have the same dream?"
   
   Fresh tears resulted. "Can't
   you leave me alone?" She
   turned her back. "I got things
   to do. You can make yourself
   comfortable—" She indicated
   the barber chairs, and left
   through the back door.
   
   Sol looked after her, and
   then ambled over to the first
   chair and slipped into the
   high seat. His reflection in
   the mirror, strangely gray in
   the dim light, made him
   groan. His clothes were a
   mess, and he needed a shave.
   If only Brundage had been
   alive ...
   
   He leaped out of the chair
   as voices sounded behind the
   door. Dawes was kicking it
   open with his foot, his arms
   laden with two rather large
   feet, still encased in bedroom
   slippers. Charlie was at the
   other end of the burden,
   which appeared to be a middle-aged
   man in pajamas. The
   Sheriff followed the trio up
   with a sad, undertaker expression.
   Behind him came Mrs.
   Brundage, properly weeping.
   
   "We'll take him to the funeral
   parlor," Dawes said,
   breathing hard. "Weighs a
   ton, don't he?"
   
   "What killed him?" Sol
   said.
   
   "Heart attack."
   
   The fat man chuckled.
   
   The tableau was grisly. Sol
   looked away, towards the
   comfortingly mundane atmosphere
   of the barber shop. But
   even the sight of the thick-padded
   chairs, the shaving
   mugs on the wall, the neat
   rows of cutting instruments,
   seemed grotesque and morbid.
   
   "Listen," Sol said, as they
   went through the doorway.
  "About my car—"
   
   The Sheriff turned and regarded
   him lugubriously.
  "Your car ? Young man, ain't
   you got no respect ?"
   
   Sol swallowed hard and fell
   silent. He went outside with
   them, the woman slamming
   the barber-shop door behind
   him. He waited in front of
   the building while the men
   toted away the corpse to some
   new destination.
   
   
   
   He
   took a walk.
   
   The town was just coming
   to life. People were strolling
   out of their houses, commenting
   on the weather, chuckling
   amiably about local affairs.
   Kids on bicycles were beginning
   to appear, jangling the
   little bells and hooting to
   each other. A woman, hanging
   wash in the back yard,
   called out to him, thinking
   he was somebody else.
   
   He found a little park, no
   more than twenty yards in
   circumference, centered
   around a weatherbeaten monument
   of some unrecognizable
   military figure. Three
   old men took their places on
   the bench that circled the
   General, and leaned on their
   canes.
   
   Sol was a civil engineer.
   But he made like a reporter.
   
   "Pardon me, sir." The old
   man, leathery-faced, with a
   fine yellow moustache, looked
   at him dumbly. "Have you
   ever heard of Armagon?"
   
   "You a stranger?"
   
   "Yes."
   
   "Thought so."
   
   Sol repeated the question.
   
   "Course I did. Been goin'
   there ever since I was a kid.
   Night-times, that is."
   
   "How—I mean, what kind
   of place is it?"
   
   "Said you're a stranger?"
   
   "Yes."
   
   "Then 'tain't your business."
   
   That was that.
   
   He left the park, and wandered
   into a thriving luncheonette.
   He tried questioning
   the man behind the counter,
   who merely snickered and
   said: "You stayin' with the
   Dawes, ain't you? Better ask
   Willie, then. He knows the
   place better than anybody."
   
   He asked about the execution,
   and the man stiffened.
   
   "Don't think I can talk
   about that. Fella broke one of
   the Laws; that's about it.
   Don't see where you come
   into it."
   
   At eleven o'clock, he returned
   to the Dawes residence,
   and found Mom in the
   kitchen, surrounded by the
   warm nostalgic odor of home-baked
   bread. She told him
   that her husband had left a
   message for the stranger, informing
   him that the State
   Police would be around to get
   his story.
   
   He waited in the house,
   gloomily turning the pages of
   the local newspaper, searching
   for references to Armagon.
   He found nothing.
   
   At eleven-thirty, a brown-faced
   State Trooper came to
   call, and Sol told his story.
   He was promised nothing,
   and told to stay in town until
   he was contacted again by
   the authorities.
   
   Mom fixed him a light
   lunch, the greatest feature of
   which was some hot biscuits
   she plucked out of the oven.
   It made him feel almost normal.
   
   He wandered around the
   town some more after lunch,
   trying to spark conversation
   with the residents.
   
   He learned little.
   
   
   
   At
   five-thirty, he returned
   to the Dawes house, and was
   promptly leaped upon by
   little Sally.
   
   "Hi! Hi! Hi!" she said,
   clutching his right leg and
   almost toppling him over.
  "We had a party in school. I
   had chocolate cake. You goin'
   to stay with us?"
   
   "Just another night," Sol
   told her, trying to shake the
   girl off. "If it's okay with
   your folks. They haven't
   found my car yet."
   
   "Sally!" Mom was peering
   out of the screen door. "You
   let Mr. Becker alone and go
   wash. Your Pa will be home
   soon."
   
   "Oh, pooh," the girl said,
   her pigtails swinging. "Do
   you got a girlfriend, mister?"
   
   "No." Sol struggled towards
   the house with her
   dead weight on his leg.
  "Would you mind? I can't
   walk."
   
   "Would you be my boyfriend?"
   
   "Well, we'll talk about it.
   If you let go my leg."
   
   Inside the house, she said:
  "We're having pot roast. You
   stayin'?"
   
   "Of course Mr. Becker's
   stayin'," Mom said. "He's our
   guest."
   
   "That's very kind of you,"
   Sol said. "I really wish you'd
   let me pay something—"
   
   "Don't want to hear another
   word about pay."
   
   
   
   Mr. Dawes
   came home an
   hour later, looking tired.
   Mom pecked him lightly on
   the forehead. He glanced at
   the evening paper, and then
   spoke to Sol.
   
   "Hear you been asking
   questions, Mr. Becker."
   
   Sol nodded, embarrassed.
  "Guess I have. I'm awfully
   curious about this Armagon
   place. Never heard of anything
   like it before."
   
   Dawes grunted. "You ain't
   a reporter?"
   
   "Oh, no. I'm an engineer. I
   was just satisfying my own
   curiosity."
   
   "Uh-huh." Dawes looked
   reflective. "You wouldn't be
   thinkin' about writing us up
   or anything. I mean, this is a
   pretty private affair."
   
   "Writing it up?" Sol
   blinked. "I hadn't thought of
   it. But you'll have to admit—it's
   sure interesting."
   
   "Yeah," Dawes said narrowly.
  "I guess it would be."
   
   "Supper!" Mom called.
   
   After the meal, they spent
   a quiet evening at home. Sally
   went to bed, screaming her
   reluctance, at eight-thirty.
   Mom, dozing in the big chair
   near the fireplace, padded upstairs
   at nine. Then Dawes
   yawned widely, stood up, and
   said goodnight at quarter-of-ten.
   
   He paused in the doorway
   before leaving.
   
   "I'd think about that," he
   said. "Writing it up, I mean.
   A lot of folks would think
   you were just plum crazy."
   
   Sol laughed feebly. "I
   guess they would at that."
   
   "Goodnight," Dawes said.
   
   "Goodnight."
   
   He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for about
   half an hour. Then he undressed,
   made himself comfortable
   on the sofa, snuggled
   under the soft blanket
   that Mom had provided, and
   shut his eyes.
   
   He reviewed the events of
   the day before dropping off
   to sleep. The troublesome
   Sally. The strange dream
   world of Armagon. The visit
   to the barber shop. The removal
   of Brundage's body.
   The conversations with the
   townspeople. Dawes' suspicious
   attitude ...
   
   Then sleep came.
   
   
   
   He
   was flanked by marble
   pillars, thrusting towards
   a high-domed ceiling.
   
   The room stretched long
   and wide before him, the
   walls bedecked in stunning
   purple draperies.
   
   He whirled at the sound of
   footsteps, echoing stridently
   on the stone floor. Someone
   was running towards him.
   
   It was Sally, pigtails
   streaming out behind her, the
   small body wearing a flowing
   white toga. She was shrieking,
   laughing as she skittered
   past him, clutching a gleaming
   gold helmet.
   
   He called out to her, but
   she was too busy outdistancing
   her pursuer. It was Sheriff
   Coogan, puffing and huffing,
   the metal-and-gold cloth
   uniform ludicrous on his
   lanky frame.
   
   "Consarn kid!" he wheezed.
  "Gimme my hat!"
   
   Mom was following him,
   her stout body regal in scarlet
   robes. "Sally! You give
   Sir Coogan his helmet! You
   hear?"
   
   "Mrs. Dawes!" Sol said.
   
   "Why, Mr. Becker! How
   nice to see you again! Pa! Pa! Look who's here!"
   
   Willie Dawes appeared. No! Sol thought. This was King Dawes; nothing else
   could explain the magnificence
   of his attire.
   
   "Yes," Dawes said craftily.
  "So I see. Welcome to Armagon,
   Mr. Becker."
   
   "Armagon?" Sol gaped.
  "Then this is the place
   you've been dreaming about?"
   
   "Yep," the King said. "And
   now you're in it, too."
   
   "Then I'm only dreaming!"
   
   Charlie, the fat man,
   clumsy as ever in his robes of
   State, said: "So that's the
   snooper, eh?"
   
   "Yep," Dawes chuckled.
  "Think you better round up
   the Knights."
   
   Sol said: "The Knights?"
   
   "Exelution! Exelution!"
   Sally shrieked.
   
   "Now wait a minute—"
   
   Charlie shouted.
   
   Running feet, clanking of
   armor. Sol backed up against
   a pillar. "Now look here.
   You've gone far enough—"
   
   "Not quite," said the King.
   
   The Knights stepped forward.
   
   "Wait!" Sol screamed.
   
   Familiar faces, under shining
   helmets, moved towards
   him; the tips of sharp-pointed
   spears gleaming wickedly.
   And Sol Becker wondered—would
   he ever awake?
question_text: Who is Willie Dawes, and what are his characteristics?
response: Willie Dawes is the head of the Dawes household, Mom’s husband, Sally’s father, and, apparently, a king of Armagon. He seems relatively friendly and approachable when he first meets Sol and promises to take him over to the sheriff. Dawes is rather outgoing - a lot of citizens know him. Still, he is very protective of their town’s dream of Armagon. So whenever Sol asks about this place or the execution, Dawes becomes cold, stern, and uneasy. He plainly refuses to answer the first questions about it and then later makes sure Sol is not a prying journalist who wants to write about Armagon. Dawes also seems rational and emotionless when it comes to Armagon’s laws and those who breach them. For example, he pragmatically approaches the death of Vincent Brundage, who got executed for breaking a rule, and considers his punishment necessary.  