‘Believe me, it wasn’t. I’ve studied these beautiful carvings for days – as I said before, I would have noticed if they had hooks.’ She took out another of the fish carvings and unwrapped it from its newspaper, turning it over to view the back of it. ‘There,’ she said, ‘another one with a hook that wasn’t there before. I bet all the others have hooks now. You are a dream sculptor, aren’t you?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. That’s assuming this is a dream. People can’t burn flesh and feel pain in dreams,’ he said and inspected the blisters on the tips of his fingers.
Mariella shrugged.
‘As I was saying, have these if you like them,’ and she retrieved five tiny metal feathers from the bottom of her bag. ‘I found them on the back seat of the bus.’
‘Well, I do have some of those already; an odd collection but I find them fascinating.’
‘Then they’re yours,’ she said and handed them over.
‘Thank you.’
Logic. Reality has logic – fixed rules and immutable laws, then why not a dream in reality? That must surely have a dream logic…
‘What are you thinking?’ Mariella asked.
‘Nothing much. Except…look, I’m going to try an experiment, if that’s acceptable to you.’
‘No skin off my fish.’
He closed his eyes and willed with a command.
‘Then I wish this carriage to slow down and finally stop.’
The underground train rumbled on.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack…
Well, that didn’t work.
‘Nothing happened,’ Mariella said.
‘Hmm,’ Stave answered. ‘How about the hooks?’
‘What about the hooks?’
‘If I somehow made them appear, then perhaps I can make them disappear.’
‘Give it a go although it’ll be a shame. I like the hooks.’
OK, the fish hanging from the silver coat hanger hasn’t a hook anymore.’
Nothing.
I was wrong in my assumptions. No fish hooks, that’s all I asked.
The fish hanging from the coat hanger fell to the floor.
I see. I have to think about it. Stop the underground train, now.
Nothing again.
Not strong enough yet. Could be that. Yet how can reality, albeit like a dream, be influenced just by thought anyway?
The fused metal rosette on Mariella’s dress started to pulse with a grey light.
‘What does this mean?’ she said.
‘My guess is, it means an agent of Tremelon is near. Or the rosette will affect your or my dream in a bad way. Actually, I really don’t know. What I do know is, you need to unpin it, now, and fast.’
‘You’re so insistent. I will then, just to please you.’ But as Mariella attempted to open the safety pin, her hands turned ice white and trembled uncontrollably. ‘My hands – so cold,’ she said, taking them away.
‘I really don’t know what to do,’ Stave said.
Let the rosette drop to the floor.
The rosette remained pinned to Mariella’s dress.
As she massaged her fingers to bring warmth back to them, Mariella Fortana spoke in a dreamy voice.
‘So anyway, further along, we found another tunnel leading us to an underground train tunnel. That's a lot of tunnels. I could be wrong but there might have been even more tunnels, a whole labyrinth of them, worming their way under the river. Who knows what incredible engineering feats clever people have performed, hidden from everyday view? Tunnels for cars, tunnels for trains, tunnels for water, tunnels for chemicals; tunnels for this, tunnels for that, tunnels for mythical beasts for all we know. Green tunnels, covered in lush grass. That’s what I needed to find…’
Stave paid no heed to the young woman. To him, it sounded like she bleated like a sheep.
He looked between the mass of branches at a window of the carriage. The alcoves in the tunnel walls were getting smaller and despite the articles displayed in them becoming smaller too, they seemed to take on a focused detail of their own. All about him was becoming dim as if the carriage lights were failing. The voices of the standing passengers had evolved to ominous creaking and metallic cracking, as if the twisted branches about him were cracking within the creaking of a large pipe. A strange scent wafted through the carriage, not unlike musky wallpaper, or treacly wine, or dusky places. As bilious as it made him feel, it had an addictive quality about it, a seductive ambience, as if one had to continually check the smell to confirm the impression of it over and again, never quite placing it. The small, lit items in the passing alcoves evoked a feeling of horror and dismay; they seemed organic as each one writhed and throbbed in a particularly detestable way, in their tiny places. Stave felt nauseated and repelled by them.
As the train wheels became louder, Stave turned back to Mariella to avoid watching the passing alcoves with their miniature, hideous contents.
‘The carvings are quite exquisite, aren't they?’ the young woman exclaimed.
‘Mariella, come with me. Do follow this time – I’ll find a way to remove the rosette. This dream or reality is going bad again.’
Mariella looked bemused and so ignored Stave, even turning her head away from him and lowering her heavily-lidded eyelids, showing thick mascara on her eyelashes. On each closed lid was painted a fish eye.
She continued, ‘Each scale is created in the minutest of detail and if one were to look at it with a magnifying glass, one would see more superb detail, as fine as hair. Look even further, teeth and nails, further still, blue smoke…’
A green silk curtain divided the carriage he stood in with the next. Perhaps there was safety in the other carriage. Stave attempted to pull Mariella by her arms to a standing position but she felt as heavy as stone.
As she gabbled on and the train wheels became louder still, Stave shouted above it all, ‘If you can’t come with me, I’ve got to leave you again, Mariella. I’ve no choice,’ and he poked his head through the silk curtain.
He saw an empty carriage, devoid of people and any form of growth – no branches or plants of any kind – and in complete silence.
12 : FURTHER INTO DREAM TERRITORY
Stave walked quickly through into the next carriage and chose a seat at random.
He felt sure he was safe again. The atmosphere seemed immediately better. If only Mariella had come with him. He felt guilty at not bringing her but as she had refused, there was no more he could do to help.
He was relieved that the alcoves in the tunnel walls had gone. Now only sooty cables and the occasional light on the wall of the tunnel rushed by.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack…
The pattern of repetitive beats on the tracks was somehow soothing. His eyelids drooped and he was feeling weary and drowsy all at once. He decided to take a short nap before the train reached its destination, wherever that might be. Perhaps it would be the Olympian Shopping Mall, filled with shops of all types, bustling pedestrians hurrying past on the walkways and promenades.
At the same time that he closed his eyelids, a roar of laughter came from another carriage and his eyes sprang open again. Stave blew through his nose; perhaps his catnap could wait. Or perhaps not – as sleep tugged him again and he closed his eyelids once more and saw nothing but black with a dark blue shape creeping and slithering in the corner of his mind, another hail of laughter came from the passengers standing in the previous carriage. He shook his head with annoyance.
He looked to his reflection in the window opposite – a dark, slightly distorted image – and saw other reflections there, as if all of the seats each side of him were full.
Astonishing. Deeper into the dream.
There was the reflection of a man reading a newspaper and another talking to his partner, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. The reflection of a woman, next to his own – wearing bright earrings and a silver rose pinned to her blouse – looked to him and gave a brie
f smile, as if in recognition.
Stave involuntarily checked the seat beside him but an empty place was all that he saw.
The reflection of the woman spoke.
‘You are ebbing and flowing like the waves of a sea. Come, join us with our joyous company. We travel through dreams of all kinds.’
Stave heard the sound of tap-dancing or the flaps of a dog's ears when the animal shakes its head, or noise of tapping of fingers onto plastic. Whichever it was, he looked to the silk curtain dividing the carriages for some sort of explanation. studying it intently, as if expecting the maker of the source of the sound to walk, dance, or trot out.
Through a gap in the curtain, he glimpsed some of the standing passengers, now excitedly comparing rosettes.
A shadow on the floorpan. Stave looked up and to his left, and saw an inspector standing over him. A ticket dispenser on his chest was held by a leather strap about his neck. His cap seemed too large for him but this comical aspect was balanced by his serious jowls, suspicious eyes, and severe eyebrows.
‘Ticket?’ the inspector said in a clipped tone.
‘Are you real or part of someone else’s dream?’ Stave asked.
But then what is reality? I can see this stout man as clearly as anything, fidgeting in front of me. If I poke him he would react. The same if I stubbed his toe.
‘You are creating a conundrum with that comment,’ the ticket inspector replied, then asked again, ‘ticket?’
Stave bit his lip and fumbled in the pockets of his jacket. He extracted the small bottle of cough mixture from one and a business card from the other. He held the cardboard rectangle up to the inspector, then retracted it as quickly as he had offered it.
‘I haven’t got a ticket,’ he admitted.
Guilty as charged. No ticket. But then I didn’t ask to ride this train. And I didn’t see any ticket machines.
‘Of course you have, it’s in your hand,’ the inspector said and he took the business card, and held it close to his face. ‘Quikso Lebum, Interior Designer and Official Gathering Guest,’ he read. ‘That will do nicely.’ He appeared amused and upon clipping it with a metal clipping tool, he handed the business card back to Stave. ‘That’ll be fine,’ he added.
Will it? Is it fine? Are you certain? It’s not a train ticket and it doesn’t even belong to me.
‘Put the cough mixture away. Don’t need it here.’
‘You are certain?’ Stave said. The inspector merely nodded and began walking away as Stave pocketed the cough mixture. ‘Hey, before you go, can you tell me where this train is going?’
‘Wherever you want. Where do you want it to go?’
‘I’ve decided it must be the Olympian Shopping Mall. Or the gathering.’
‘Then make up your mind which one and that’s where you’re going,’ replied the inspector and then he paused before saying in a friendly way, ‘I’ve seen you a lot in my dreams,’ and held his hand out.
Stave shook it and said, ‘Pleased to meet you. Have you been a ticket inspector for long? Are you part of the dream cast?’
‘Since this morning to both questions. And it’s still morning, isn’t it? Who is to know, buried under the earth in this tunnel, the way we are. A night sky above or a day filled with sunshine. Or a planet’s surface devoid of humanity, everyone hiding underground in the tunnels. That would be good for business. I’ve always wanted to be a ticket inspector. Here, let me give you another ticket. I like you. You’re a good sort.’
‘If you think I need another ticket…’
‘Of course you do,’ the man replied and he turned a handle on the machine around his neck. With a whirr and a ding from a bell, a small, metal object appeared into a tray. The inspector took it and handed it to Stave. It was a miniature metronome, no more than three centimetres high.
‘Thank you, but how do you know I’m collecting these dream finds?’
‘I don’t, but the dream does,’ he replied and tapped the side of his bulbous nose. Then he stood up and waddled away, disappearing from sight into the next carriage.
As Stave pocketed Quikso Lebum’s business card and the miniature metronome, the underground train was slowing, as was the tempo made with the wheels clacking on the rails.
13 : VISIONS OF THE DREAM BEYOND
A plain, warm-grey underground platform slipped into view beyond the carriage window, with mauve porcelain tiles on the wall. And as the train slowed to a standstill with a screech from the brakes, Stave stood, ready to leave the train.
He froze in confusion. A sudden round of applause, sounding like waves breaking onto a beach, came from an unidentified source. This was followed by a whirring and grinding: the complete side of the carriage – hinged at the bottom, similar to a wide ramp from a ship or aeroplane – began to open. The side lowered quickly and landed on the platform with a clank. The strip lights set in the carriage roof decreased in luminance to nothing, leaving only a gentle glow remaining, painting Stave’s surroundings as if tinted by moonlight. The glow came from lightbulbs along the top of the mauve tiled wall, casting their gentle light over the descended carriage side and into the interior.
Stave sat again, settled back into his seat, and moved his lower limbs to become more comfortable. He was feeling dreamlike again, gently smiling and nodding in anticipation.
Go with the flow.
It was as if he were at a theatre, with the expectation of an occurrence. This was confirmed by the tiles on the platform wall falling all at once onto the metal and glass of the folded-down carriage side, with an impressive crashing noise. A pair of crimson curtains were revealed. They billowed and trembled as if from an invisible wind.
Between the flat carriage side and the wall, a strip of the concrete platform showed. Rising from it were eggs, the size of heads, their shells the hue of liver. Stave felt oddly disappointed when those eggs submerged as the curtains opened of their own accord. Revealed was a wall of tightly packed, framed photographs. Those photographic images were shown in warm greys within wide, black frames. As Stave concentrated on any one picture, be it an image of a doll, a cat, or a horseshoe, it became blurred, out of focus with the others at the periphery of his vision. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. And as he did so, those pictures also fell to the floor, like the tiles before them, to reveal a large underwater scene showing beyond a thick sheet of glass.
Under the clear water intersected by sun rays, there were ridges and hills of crystal coral. These let out rainbow fans of light. Deep blue sprouts of weed swayed within strings of effervescence. Their pods were silently exploding, each time giving a miniature fireworks display.
Two brown horses trotted into view between the coral hills. Their manes, tails, and forelocks flowed and waved with the currents. Beads of air, as bubbles, came from their wide nostrils. The heavy beasts with solid haunches and long necks were admirable to see under he water. They cropped the weed, sometimes the pods disintegrating in sprays from their mouths.
Crystalline fish swam about and under the horses’ bellies. Those fish were many-gilled, with translucent streamers and stems growing from their heads and scaled bodies. When any one of the fish turned from its profile, Stave saw that instead of round buttons for eyes, they possessed human eyes, complete with lashes and eyebrows. Intelligence shone from them as they danced around and about the underwater horses.
Stave was captivated by all this. He wanted to clap his hands but instead, stood with a bout of energy banishing his weariness. He climbed over a carriage seat and walked out onto the horizontal train carriage side, so taken by those beautiful features of the fish. He stepped over the litter of tiles, broken frames and glass, to the concrete platform strip not covered by the carriage side. He looked up to the line of glowing lightbulbs but then was quickly startled: at the same time as the curtains hurriedly closed, the side of the train compartment rapidly sprang back up into position, sending the debris on it catapulting into the carriage interior.
The underground train was g
oing to leave without him. But he was comforted by the fact that as it began to be swallowed by the tunnel, it was leaving without most of the other passengers either. They huddled together at the far end of the platform, arguing and pushing each other.
All except for one other person that he saw still on-board. As the train slid past, picking up speed, he saw Mariella Fortana sitting alone, hanging one of her wooden fish onto a silver coat hanger.
I hope she’s going to be OK.
Stave strode towards the large group of passengers, over the remaining shards of glass and the occasional mangled picture frame, or broken tile, scattered on the platform.
14 : ARGUMENTS AND CONFUSION
He glanced up and down the platform, then shouted over their noise.
‘Does anyone know how to get out? There doesn’t seem to be any exits,’ he said. ‘Or do you know when the next train is due?’
One of the arguing group spoke up.
‘No, do you?’
Before Stave could speak, another passenger gave the answer.
‘Two days.’
Yet another replied, ‘Two days? You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t wait here for that long. The Olympian Shopping Mall closes on a Sunday. Anyhow, we’d all get hungry and cold.’
Another dream gust…
‘There's a snack machine over there, bursting with goodness. It dispenses Wheaty Crunch, or is it Tweety Crunch?’ someone said, and someone else gave a hysterical laugh.
A tall man wearing pince-nez spectacles pushed his way to the front of the group to confront Stave. He had the sleeves of his striped shirt rolled up to his elbows and wore two belts about his oversized trousers.
He cleared his throat and said with disdain, ‘I don’t see anything to laugh about. In fact, quite the opposite. Someone has removed my fine bicycle and wheeled it to somewhere else. I can’t find it anywhere.’
Here we go again…
He continued, ‘It’s not only frustrating but also worrying. And all you do is talk about Tweety Mints and waiting for a train arriving in two days. It really is not good enough. Do something.’
Turquoise Traveller Page 7