Dream Master: Arabian Nights

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘La Bazca,’ said Lauren. ‘But I’m not at liberty to reveal its origins.’

  ‘I get it!’ Cy said. ‘It’s the beginning letters of your names. Lauren, Baz and Cartwheel.’

  Lauren glared at him.

  ‘Well spotted, Cy!’ said his dad.

  ‘I think the name is of lesser importance,’ said Lauren huffily. ‘The key to getting attention is to have a really good gimmick.’

  ‘From a business perspective I can agree with that. A clever promotional idea can help sell the product,’ said Cy’s dad.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Cy.

  ‘Like vomit on stage,’ said Lauren, flouncing out of the room.

  Cy’s mum took a tissue from the box on the coffee table and pressed it to her mouth. ‘Hopefully there are other ways,’ she murmured.

  But Lauren was already on her way upstairs, singing defiantly:

  ‘Ay Ay Ay Ay

  We are the girls who say No!

  We are the girls who say Go!

  Go On!

  Go Out!

  Go . . . o!

  Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Ooooohhhhh!!!!!’

  Before he got ready for bed Cy went to the garage and checked on the dreamsilk. As soon as he lifted the lid of the enamel teapot he knew that there had been a change. The piece of dreamsilk had darkened, blue shadows moved among its folds and a restless energy crackled along the edge.

  Cy reached his fingers towards it and then stopped. It was tempting to grab it in both hands and let it take him wherever it might go. But he mustn’t. First he had to think, then make a plan what to do. The force within the dreamsilk was very compelling. His Dream Master had often warned him about using it wisely. Cy knew that dream energy was powerful – powerful and unpredictable.

  Cy decided he would wait. It was almost bed-time now. It would be better if he used it here in the garage tomorrow after school, when he was more certain of not being disturbed. Leaving it one more day would allow the energy to flood into all the corners, and it would also give him time to consider where to travel to within the dreamworld.

  Before falling asleep Cy read another story from the Tales from the Arabian Nights. Everything he was finding out about genies only served to make him more anxious. All through the night Cy tossed and turned trying to think of what he might do once it was time to use the dreamsilk. He needed advice. He could see that now. Someone to talk things over with, someone who could help out. But whom could he trust to tell about the Dream Master? Who would believe him? Who would take the situation seriously enough to help him out?

  It wasn’t until he awoke the next morning that the answer came to him. As soon as he opened his eyes Cy sat up in bed with a start. There was somebody who could help him find the Dream Master.

  Someone who had told the Dream Master that Cy needed instruction and help to learn how to negotiate through the dreamworld. The single person not likely to be outmanoeuvred by a crafty genie. One whose own wits would be more than a match for any sharp practice. For the simple reason that she too was an accomplished trickster.

  The Princess Shahr-Azad.

  IT WASN’T UNTIL late on Wednesday night that Cy got a chance to use his dreamsilk.

  In the early part of the evening Vicky and Innis and Basra had come round and the four of them rehearsed their own individual pieces. Then they talked through how their show would actually run from start to finish.

  ‘The competition rules say that each act is only allowed a maximum of four minutes,’ said Cy.

  ‘I’ve made a plan of how to put all the different bits together,’ said Basra, who had been elected the master of ceremonies. ‘And I’ve settled on our name. I looked through everyone’s suggestions and chosen “Magical Mixture”. Sorry if the double M reminds anybody of the Mean Machines, but my dad said if we let certain people stop us calling our act the name we want then we’d be giving in to bullying.’

  ‘I never thought of it like that,’ said Cy. ‘You’re right, Basra.’

  ‘It’s a good name,’ said Innis.

  ‘Sums up what we’re about,’ said Vicky.

  Basra had decided that the signal for the act to start would be him firing off the cannon straight up in the air so that some confetti scattered over the stage. This was to give the others time to assemble their props and get started. Vicky was to go first and cycle around on her own for a bit, while Basra lit his indoor sparklers. He had stuck rows of these along each side of the cannon. His idea was that they would ask for the stage lighting to be kept low and the little burning lights would create a magical and mysterious atmosphere. After setting off the sparklers Basra would refill the cannon with more confetti. While Basra was reloading the cannon, Innis would do some juggling, then move to one side to allow Cy to perform his magic tricks. During this part Vicky would keep cycling behind Cy. When Cy finished he would signal the end by bursting a balloon with a pin. At that moment Innis would stop juggling, Vicky would gracefully dismount from her mono-cycle, and Basra would fire the last load of confetti into the audience. This would be their finale and they would all take a bow together.

  Basra had printed out his notes and gave everyone a copy. While they read through their parts he aimed the confetti gun at Vicky and showered her with coloured paper circles. ‘Trial run,’ he said.

  Vicky laughed and shook the confetti out of her hair. ‘I don’t think we’ll get anywhere near the final,’ she said, ‘but with a bit of luck we could win one of the prizes. There’s more than five hundred CD tokens to be won.’

  ‘We still need to practise lots more,’ said Cy. He was now able to make the key appear and disappear from the red spotted scarf without too much fumbling, and was putting together a non-bursting balloon trick. This involved taping a small square of clear tape on each end of an inflated balloon, which meant that a long skewer could be passed through from end to end without the balloon bursting. Cy was covering the ends of the balloon with different coloured ribbon. At least this trick didn’t involve him in any sleight of hand.

  ‘Let’s meet here again after school tomorrow,’ said Basra, ‘and have a complete run through, from beginning to end, of everything we’re going to do.’

  After his friends had left, Cy took the enamel teapot down from the window-sill. He opened the lid, and, lifting out the piece of dreamsilk, he laid it in his palm. With his other hand he opened the book of the Tales of the Arabian Nights and started to read the prologue aloud.

  ‘In the lands of Ancient Arabia there dwelt a mysterious Princess. Her name itself is a mystery, as, at various times, she has been known as Shahrayzad, Scheherazade, or Shahr-Azad . . .

  The dreamsilk in Cy’s hand stirred.

  In any event, she was a courageous girl of noble birth . . .

  Cy’s hand tightened around the little piece of cloth as it began to thrum with energy.

  . . . Shahr-Azad was both beautiful and intelligent, but blessed with one gift above all other . . .

  Moving within the folds of the material Cy saw faces, words, spinning planets, and the abyss of the unknown.

  . . . The Princess Shahr-Azad had the ability to tell wondrous stories . . .

  Hypnotised by the images in the dreamsilk, Cy’s eyes left the book, drawn towards the shifting kaleidoscope of light and shadow.

  . . . Stories of such marvel and ingenuity that all who heard them were enchanted . . .

  The great portal of Time and Space yawned open. Cy wavered, closed his eyes and tumbled in. The book fell to the floor of the garage, its leaves turning over and over.

  With a cry of fear Cy fell down through the Ages. Black torrents of Time rushed past him.

  ‘Keep focused!’ he yelled at himself. He must remember all the details he knew of Shahr-Azad so that he could reconnect with her again. It was important that he land inside the palace, but not inside the dungeon. Cy tried to remember something, anything, about the last time he had been in Ancient Arabia.

  But now he had lost the book. It was left behind
on the garage floor, wrenched from his grasp by the force of his entry into the dreamworld. Cy tried to slow down, but his thoughts, and the motion of TimeSpace, raced faster. Fantastical beasts reared out of the darkness. Hands tore at his clothes, and nowhere, nowhere at all was the guiding voice of his Dream Master.

  ‘Help!’ Cy cried out in terror. ‘Help!’

  Darkness rushed to meet him. The great maw of the unfathomable was overpowering him. He was completely lost, his mind numbed. At the end, as he lost consciousness, one name came to his lips.

  ‘Shahr-Azad! Storyteller!’ Cy cried out. ‘Princess Shahr-Azad! Help me!’

  THE HANDS THAT came from the darkness had changed to tentacles, winding themselves around Cy’s neck and arms, tightening as he tried to free himself. If only he could see more. Cy wrenched his face free and looked up. The silver slice of a crescent moon sailed in the sky above him. A sky so deeply blue, with stars in a pattern not familiar to him, that he knew at once he had landed in the Arabia of long ago. But where exactly?

  Cy looked down at what was entwined around his body. It was the creeping foliage of a large bush. He was in the walled garden inside the palace!

  Carefully he disentangled himself from the branches that had wound themselves round him. He stood up. The garden was empty. Keeping to the cover of the wall Cy crept quietly along the length of the garden and out into the corridor that led to the courtyard. All was quiet. Directly opposite him were some stairs leading down. Cy could smell cooking – meat roasting with pungent spices and exotic herbs. That stairway must lead to the kitchens.

  Flitting from pillar to pillar Cy made his way along the corridor in the direction of the courtyard.

  ‘Cy!’

  Cy stopped. Someone had called his name! His heart slammed hard against the wall of his chest. He could not take even one more step.

  The voice was that of Shahr-Azad. How could she possibly know that he was here?

  Then Cy heard another voice, of a deeper tone.

  ‘Cy? An unusual name, my Princess.’

  ‘An unusual individual, my King,’ Cy heard Shahr-Azad reply. ‘And very brave and bold, this boy named “Cy-Rus”.’

  Cy’s breathing steadied once more. No one had seen him. He was overhearing a conversation taking place in the courtyard just ahead of him.

  ‘Cy-Rus,’ Shahr-Azad’s voice became vibrant and enticing, ‘was a clever and courageous young man who lived in a far off land.’

  Cy gasped. The Princess was using him in her story! He remembered his teacher Mrs Chalmers once telling the class that storytellers and writers used fact to weave tales of fiction, borrowing scenes and characters from real life to construct character, setting and dialogue.

  Very, very carefully Cy edged his face round the pillar. He could now see into the courtyard. In the centre, near the fountain, Shahr-Azad sat on her magic carpet. The King, a fiercesome-looking man with a long beard, reclined near to her on a great tasselled cushion. All around the courtyard torches set in brackets flickered, throwing grotesque shadows on the walls.

  ‘In his Time he had to defeat those of ill-intent.’ Shahr-Azad lowered her voice. ‘But Cy-Rus was not without power. He was able to summon a necromancer, one of little stature but great cunning. The boy Cy-Rus had to wrestle with this magician to weave his own fate. But he was a young man full of clever tricks, and though the Dream Lord was mighty and wily, the boy was able to outwit him.’

  He couldn’t really object to the line this story was taking, Cy thought. Shahr-Azad was portraying him very positively.

  ‘However, one day a great monster appeared . . .’

  Cy looked around. He would have to find somewhere else to hide until Shahr-Azad had finished telling her story. If he remained here he might be seen by anyone passing along the corridor from the kitchen. Cy slipped quietly round until he was almost at the archway that Shahr-Azad had disappeared through on the first day he had landed in ancient Arabia. That way must lead to her rooms. He would try to find the right door and wait for her there.

  Cy made to step forward and then drew back. Two large scowling guards stood holding spears, one on either side of the arch. He would never get past them.

  From the courtyard Shahr-Azad continued with her story. ‘This first dreadfully dangerous monster that Cy-Rus had to conquer was like a man, yet not a man.’ Shahr-Azad raised the pitch of her voice and it trembled with fear. ‘Behold!’ she cried loudly. ‘I will show you the likeness of the dreadful creature!’

  Cy turned to look. In her hands the Princess held Cy’s Frankenstein T-shirt! Close beside him Cy heard feet shuffle in the corridor. He shrank into the shadows. The two guards by the doorway had moved forward to be nearer to the courtyard.

  Shahr-Azad held aloft Cy’s T-shirt.

  ‘Shudder, as I did, at the hideous face of the beast!’

  As the guards craned closer to get a better look Cy slipped behind them and into the palace. Shahr-Azad’s story sounded interesting and he would have preferred to wait to hear the end of it, but he mustn’t forget why he had come to this Time.

  He was in a little room. A thick curtain hung on one wall. Apart from that it was completely empty. Cy ducked behind the curtain and stepped through into another smaller courtyard. Here the air was heavy with the smell of perfume. Tall fronds of palms brushed a canopy which was draped above a bathing pool. Dozens and dozens of lamps lit the scene, some floating in the water, others placed on the beautiful ornate tiles which bordered the pool. Round the pool, set out on tables, were circular brass trays of dusted sweetmeats, fruits in heavy syrup, honeyed cakes. Thick towels lay in piles ready to be used. It was almost as if someone was about to take a bath . . .

  The thought was hardly in Cy’s head when, from the inner part of the palace, he heard giggling and the slap, slap, slap of many sandalled feet. Talking and laughing a troupe of girls came into the courtyard.

  ‘Omigosh!’ said Cy.

  The first one who caught sight of him let out a small scream and clutched at the girl beside her. Then they all began to chatter furiously waving their hands in the air.

  ‘Omigollygosh!’ said Cy. He stumbled as he turned to go.

  An older girl pushed her way to the front of the group. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘You have no right to be in the ladies’ quarters. What is your business here?’

  ‘I am here to see the Princess Shahr-Azad,’ Cy managed to gasp. ‘I mean no harm.’

  The rest of the girls crowded behind her pointing and squealing.

  ‘What an odd colour his face is!’

  ‘His hair is so peculiar!’

  ‘Do you see his strange clothes!’

  ‘Look at his round eyes!’

  As they came towards him staring curiously Cy backed rapidly away. He tripped and fell, upending one of the little tables. The circular bronze tray went flying and the dishes of cakes and fruits cascaded to the ground.

  Then the girls all rushed upon him at once. Cy raised his arm to protect himself, but he was not fast enough. The older girl had crept up behind him, lifted one of the bronzed trays, and now brought it crashing down upon his head.

  WHEN CY OPENED his eyes he was lying on a long couch with his head resting on the rolled up magic carpet. He scrambled to his feet. The room he was in looked out to the main courtyard. Cy could hear the pigeons cooing from round the fountain. Behind him the door opened. He spun round. It was the Princess Shahr-Azad.

  ‘Your head will be very sore,’ she said. ‘Being struck on the head with a large tray is not a pleasant experience.’

  Cy put his hand to his head. It was sore and there was a large bump rising under his hair.

  ‘You were lucky,’ said Shahr-Azad, ‘that it was the ladies of the palace who found you and not the Palace Guard. They are very loyal to me and smuggled you here without anyone seeing.’ She handed Cy a little cup containing mint tea. ‘Drink this. It will make you feel better. Then tell me why, after making your escape from our deepest dungeo
n, you decided to return.’ She looked at Cy keenly. ‘Alone.’

  ‘I’ve lost the Dream Master.’

  ‘You cannot lose a Dream Master,’ said Shahr-Azad.

  ‘Not lose, exactly,’ said Cy. ‘You see, in order to get out of the cell where we were imprisoned I Imagined a genie—’

  ‘You summoned a genie – a djin!’ Shahr-Azad stepped back and glanced around cautiously. ‘Where is this genie?’

  ‘Safely in his bottle,’ said Cy, ‘on the window shelf of my garage.’ Cy saw Shahr-Azad relax.

  ‘Genies require very careful handling,’ she said.

  ‘I know that now,’ said Cy. ‘This genie tricked me into disappearing my Dream Master.’ Cy’s voice trembled. ‘I don’t even know where to begin to find him.’

  ‘So you thought you would begin where you last saw him,’ said Shahr-Azad. ‘It was very brave of you to visit me again. Did you not think that I might still punish you for bringing me back here against my will?’

  ‘You wouldn’t really have chopped off our heads?’ said Cy.

  ‘Perhaps not. I might have had a half hundred horses trample you underfoot.’

  ‘Why half a hundred?’ asked Cy sitting down wearily on the couch. ‘Two or three would do the job just as well.’

  Shahr-Azad shook her head, and then leaned towards him. ‘Tell me, O boy from the twenty-first century. Which is more terrifying? Two or three horses, or . . . half a hundred, rearing and plunging, their nostrils flecked with foam?’

  ‘Half a hundred sounds more scary.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Shahr-Azad. ‘One must enhance the story.’

  ‘Even though some of the things you say are not true?’

  ‘But of course,’ said Shahr-Azad. ‘It is called hyperbole: some exaggeration to add flavour – a little embroidery here, a flash of colour there. To season a story with spices makes it a more appealing dish.’

  ‘Well if you are going to punish me, go ahead,’ said Cy. ‘The main reason I came back here was because I thought you might help me find my Dream Master.’