The Gallery of Forgotten Dreams

by E. A. Owell

  Chapter 7

  Mr Wood and Eliza walked into the Cornish Gallery. The Chief Librarian greeted the staff, who apparently knew him, and, as it turned out, he also had the privilege of visiting the gallery free of charge. He looked at his watch.

  ‘They’ll be closing in twenty-five minutes. Well, now we wait,’ Mr Wood said and started walking around the new collection room.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but what exactly are we doing here? Has it got anything to do with my dreams?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Oh yes, it has everything to do with your dreams, or so we think. I’m sorry, Eliza, I’m not taking time for my own pleasure, trust me, I just think you’ll understand better when you see it for yourself. And for you to see, we need to wait another twenty minutes, OK?’

  There was nothing Eliza could object to. Twenty minutes was not a long time, but right now her curiosity and a tingling feeling that she was about to see a mystery revealed turned regular minutes into impossibly long minutes.

  Together, Mr Wood and Eliza walked from painting to painting, discussing them. Mr Wood did most of the talking. Eliza was waiting for those endless twenty minutes to run out. But then it was her turn to speak.

  ‘Here! The picture like my dream used to hang here!’ Eliza said, pointing her finger at the picture with multi-coloured houses and a cobbled square.

  Mr Wood looked at it and then asked, ‘What was on that picture?’

  ‘There was a beach. And the sea. And it was so beautiful and calm…’ The image was colourfully revived in Eliza’s mind.

  ‘You say it was like from your dream?’

  ‘It was. I’d had a dream about this beautiful place and then this picture reminded me so much of it.’

  Mr Wood smiled.

  They went on into the permanent collection room.

  ‘The gallery will be closing in ten minutes,’ a voice from the speaker announced for everyone in the gallery.

  People, not so numerous, started making their way to the exit. Mr Wood and Eliza did not pay any attention to the announcement.

  They reached the ugly painting that did not make any sense to Eliza. The only remaining person in the whole room, apart from them, an elderly lady, was standing in front of the picture, looking at it intently. Mr Wood and Eliza stood next to her.

  Once again Eliza was surprised how this nonsense of a picture could fascinate anybody. Mr Wood was looking at it with a slight smile. Eliza didn’t know what was so amusing about it. She must be the only person who didn’t get it.

  Meanwhile, it was time for the gallery to close but they still were there. The old lady was there, too. At last, she must have thought it inappropriate to stay any longer, and left. She had quite a snappy walk for her age, Eliza thought as she watched the old lady walk away. With her gone, Eliza and Mr Wood were the only people left in the room. Mr Wood turned his head around, making sure they were alone.

  ‘Now we must be quick, Eliza. Follow me,’ he said, and the next moment something Eliza could not have seen coming happened.

  With one hand Mr Wood pressed the lower right-hand corner of the picture frame, and then pulled it. The frame opened like a door. Beyond it was a dark passage.

  ‘After you,’ Mr Wood said, gesturing Eliza inside.

  She hesitated a moment and then walked into the darkness. Mr Wood followed her immediately, closing the painting behind him with a barely audible click.

  ‘On we go,’ he said and led Eliza forward by the elbow.

  She expected a long tunnel, however, after only a couple of steps, something soft and vast pressed against her. She almost cried in surprise but quickly realised that those were drapes. When they drew them apart, there was light.

  Moonlight seeping through a high arched glass roof flooded the space that they had emerged in. Eliza gasped in awe, looking up.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Mr Wood said beside her, also gazing at the starry sky.

  ‘It’s enchanting,’ muttered Eliza, staring into the twinkling blackness beyond the glass roof above her head.

  Then she lowered her eyes to look at the place they were in and once again she was amazed. There was a long-long corridor ahead of them. To their left and right there were two spacious rooms. The walls in all directions were densely covered with paintings. But those weren’t regular paintings.

  The most incredible thing about them was that they moved!

  Eliza blinked, rubbed her eyes, thinking she was imagining things. But the pictures did not freeze.

  ‘It’s all right, your eyes are not lying to you. They are alive,’ said Mr Wood, touching Eliza on the shoulder.

  It was bewitching. The paintings were constantly changing, colours fusing and separating, images replacing one another, never staying the same for more than a moment.

  ‘It’s like they are telling stories,’ Eliza said, mesmerised by the view.

  ‘It’s because they are. You are looking at the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams, Eliza,’ said Mr Wood.

  ‘Gallery of what?’

  ‘Forgotten Dreams. What we are looking at right now people are seeing in their dreams.’

  Eliza looked at the rows of paintings again, stunned.

  ‘Let’s have a stroll, shall we?’ said Mr Wood, and they moved down the long corridor.

  As they walked, Eliza gazed from side to side at the moving pictures. It was hard to tear your eyes from any one of them. It was hard to believe it all was for real.

  ‘These are the pictures that people see when they go to sleep. Their dreams don’t come from nowhere. They come from here,’ Mr Wood said.

  ‘But how is this happening? Is someone painting them?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘You are absolutely right. As any other picture, these are painted. The difference is these pictures are not painted by regular painters. They are created by the Artists that work for the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams.’

  ‘How are they different from regular artists?’

  ‘What the Artists of the Gallery all have in common is talent and special tools to create what you see. They use special brushes and colour palettes that are unlike any other.’

  ‘This is incredible!’

  They strolled along the moonlit corridor that had openings to rooms full of paintings on either side. Presently, they walked into one of these rooms.

  It was a large space with numerous pictures covering the walls, varying from a gigantic canvas sprawling across the wall to their right to small pictures clustered together on the opposite side of the room. They all were alive.

  ‘As you understand, I’ve brought you here for a reason, Eliza. Mrs Cornish actually didn’t give me the permission to be here at this hour, let alone bring somebody else—’

  ‘Mrs Cornish?’

  ‘Yes, our one and only Mrs Cornish, the Chief Curator of the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams,’ Mr Wood smiled at Eliza.

  For a moment Eliza was taken aback, but then she thought that it was fairly logical, given Mrs Cornish ran the Cornish Gallery, which concealed the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams. And there was too fat of a chance that she did not know such a thing was hiding behind one of her paintings.

  Meanwhile, Mr Wood continued.

  ‘As I was saying, what we’re doing right now is not entirely authorised and could be classified as sneaking around, which is not good, but, given the circumstances, I think it’s justified.

  ‘Anyway, the point is, the Gallery of Forgotten dreams is responsible for the dreams that people see. You can see that all around you.’ He pointed to the walls. ‘The Gallery focuses on creating dreams for people. That’s what they do. However, not so long ago things began to change, and you, dear Eliza, are one of the signals of these changes.’

  Eliza looked at him questioningly.

  ‘You said you had started seeing bad dreams recently, hadn’t you?’

  Eliza nodded.

  ‘Well, I can tell you that you are not the only one. In fact, there are mo
re and more people who are starting to have the same experience. The problem is that the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams is the one place where all dreams are created and they are designed to be good. In most cases. Definitely not nightmares. And right now we fail to understand how it can create something it is not supposed to.’

  Eliza was processing what Mr Wood was saying while they proceeded into another room. She was slightly overwhelmed by the amount of information she was receiving but did her best to keep up.

  ‘According to Mrs Cornish, who hires the Artists just like I hire the Revisers for the Library, she can think of no one among her Artists who could be scaring people with bad dreams all the time, on purpose. And, to be honest, I can understand her.’ Mr Wood’s face was tinted with sadness, but Eliza couldn’t see it in the gloom of the place.

  ‘I wish I could help,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe you will, who knows? You’re a clever girl.’ Mr Wood put back on his quirky half-smile. ‘But this thing needs to be solved. The sooner the better. More and more nightmares get out there that we keep hearing of. People are getting distressed. They grow nervous, agitated, sleep-deprived.’

  ‘I know how it feels.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s happened to you, Eliza. I do hope they sort it out soon. The Fixing Department has already got involved.’

  ‘I recognised Mr Breakleg at the Library.’

  ‘He’s gathering information and all possible details about this accident. Then they will know how to act. Right now they’ve already cut down the working hours of the Cornish Gallery, so that they would have more time with Mrs Cornish, because as of now she is the most reliable and authoritative source of any information concerning the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams.’

  ‘By the way, why is it called that? Why are these dreams forgotten?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Do you remember your dreams?’ Mr Wood returned a question.

  ‘Well, some of them…’

  ‘That’s exactly it – some of them. People don’t remember most of what they dream. Almost never. And even if they think they do, when they try to actually remember the details, they can’t. They might have a feeling, a sensation left from a dream, but rarely does a dream linger in people’s memory. Thus, almost all dreams that people see are eventually forgotten. Hence, the name of the Gallery.’

  ‘But what happens to the dreams that people do remember?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure myself. Mrs Cornish should know these things. Perhaps, it is her professional secret. But you should try and ask her anyway.’ Mr Wood gave Eliza a wink. They turned left and entered the next room.

  ‘Is this why Mrs Cornish has been upset lately?’

  ‘Yes. You can see she’s taking it very close to heart. Which is understandable.’

  ‘Did Mr Cornish know about this Gallery?’

  ‘Not only did he know about it, he actually was the head of it before Mrs Cornish. It was after he had passed away that Mrs Cornish took up the office. But she had been involved with the Gallery for a long time. She and Mr Cornish worked together on it. It’s just that he bore the official title. But it was a family effort. So you can imagine how stressful this is for her. It is very personal.’

  ‘This must be really hard.’

  ‘It is indeed. I’ve been giving her all the support I can, but there is only so much you can do when matters are of such intimate nature.’

  They made another turn.

  ‘I think we should be going back. It’s getting late.’

  Having said that, Mr Wood approached a door that Eliza hadn’t noticed and opened it.

  They appeared in a white-marbled, brightly lit round hall with multiple staircases radiating from the centre. They were standing at the top of one of such staircases. Eliza recognised the place – they were in the Council of Human Affairs. She had been here once before, when they had come to Phil’s interrogation.

  They went down the stairs.

  ‘We are neighbours,’ said Mr Wood when they reached the floor and gestured to the next flight of stairs to their right.

  They went up to the door that led them, sure enough, into the Library of Broken Promises. From there, they followed into the bookshop and outside. Mr Wood saw Eliza home, and they parted.

  Eliza was rather taken aback by her parents’ reaction to her return. She couldn’t understand what she had done to make them angry, but once she deciphered words like ‘late’, ‘call’, ‘police’ among the verbal storm that rained upon her, she realised her parents were worried sick for her.

  She was unaware of how late it was. She apologised as best she could, her head all the while buzzing with all the impressions of the day. It was only when she got to bed that she realised how tired she was.

  What she did not notice, though, was that she didn’t worry about seeing the nightmare again. The night passed peacefully.

  Chapter 8

  Eliza woke up refreshed and well-rested, and did everything with renewed energy. She had breakfast, brushed her teeth, dressed and set off to school as if it were exactly the place where she wanted to be. And maybe that day she really did.

  She was so busy there that only on the way to ‘Gregory’s Books’ did it hit her that the reason why she felt so revitalised was because she had not had nightmares the past night. The black figure did not come and that was a comfort, though a small one, for there was no knowing for sure it would not return. Eliza wished she had not remembered that – her day would be brighter.

  She arrived in the bookshop very early due to a short day at school. The shop was mildly busy and Mr Wood was on his duty behind the counter.

  Eliza said hello to the shopkeeper and was about to proceed to the Library, expecting a greeting smile or a nod, but instead he waved her over. When a happy customer left the counter, Mr Wood spoke to Eliza.

  ‘Good evening, Eliza! I thought I’d let you know that today there’s a visitor waiting for you inside.’

  ‘A visitor? For me?’

  Mr Wood was about to reply but another customer came over and Eliza’s question remained unanswered.

  She went to the draped wall at the back of the shop and slipped under the purple cover, wondering who might be waiting for her.

  ‘Mr Breakleg?’ Eliza expected to see the Head Fixer probably least of all.

  ‘Good evening, Eliza. How have you been?’ said the head of the Fixing Department, dressed in his navy blue coat with canary yellow lapels. He got up from the chair at the desk where he had been sitting to greet Eliza.

  ‘I’m well, thank you. How are you?’

  ‘I’m good, very good, thank you.’

  Eliza awkwardly gazed at the man, feeling quite at a loss. She was beginning to have that feeling when she had done nothing wrong but was about to find out that she actually had.

  ‘Mr Wood said—’

  ‘Ah, so he told you I’d been waiting for you? Good. I just wanted to have a chat with you, if you don’t mind,’ Mr Breakleg looked at Eliza expectantly.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. What else could she say?

  ‘Good. Please, sit down.’

  Eliza took her usual place at the desk. The Head Fixer followed her example and sat across from her.

  ‘You appear to be aware of the situation with the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams, are you not?’

  Eliza nodded. Somehow it made her feel uncomfortable, although Mr Breakleg was speaking in a very polite and friendly tone. After all, she learned about the Gallery in his presence, which in Eliza’s mind could serve as an excuse.

  ‘More than that, you appear to be one of the victims of the current situation, if I remember correctly.’

  Eliza was fairly sure Mr Breakleg was one of those people who couldn’t not remember things correctly. She nodded again.

  ‘At the moment we are gathering information about people’s experience with dreams and, naturally, we are especially interested in those people whose, let’s say, dream pattern
shows signs of change. Particularly, change to the more negative side.’

  Eliza could see he was trying to be discreet about the subject and she appreciated it. At that moment, she realised there was no reason why she should feel guilty or blamed for anything. By the looks of it, she was there to help. This notion allowed her to relax and be more at ease.

  ‘If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them. If it helps the investigation,’ she said.

  There was a glimpse of surprise in Mr Breakleg’s eyes. Perhaps, he did not expect such readiness.

  ‘We hope it will indeed help the investigation. So, when would you say you noticed the change in your dreams?’ he asked, all ears.

  ‘Like I said, it started about three or four weeks ago.’

  ‘And how did you notice it? You don’t usually see bad dreams and suddenly they started bothering you more often than normally?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Do you still see nightmares?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eliza said and lowered her eyes to the ground, the memory of her recurring nightmare stirring in her mind again.

  ‘How often do you see them?’ asked Mr Breakleg more softly than before.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. It happens at least once a week. Sometimes it happened more often than that.’ Eliza found herself reluctant to talk about it, despite thinking she was ready just minutes ago. She didn’t look up at Mr Breakleg.

  ‘Have you noticed if anything particular caused it? Maybe you thought about it too much, or maybe something scared you, or you were particularly tired or upset or, on the contrary, happy on those days?’

  Eliza shook her head in response to all of these options. Her spirits were going lower and lower. The disquieting sense of helplessness was settling in again.

  ‘Maybe you did something special on the days when you didn’t see bad dreams? Maybe something helped to drive them away?’

  Eliza shook her head again. She was at a loss. It seemed to her that the nightmare came to her at random, irrespective of what she was doing of how she was feeling. It was a dream, after all, and who can predict dreams?