Turquoise Traveller

by David Griffin

  He pushed Stave in the chest.

  ‘Now look here,’ Stave remarked with indignation, ‘I’m not the voice of the news. And I didn’t mention any of that. Whoever said it, probably saw that hoarding,’ and he pointed to it on the wall, on the other side of the sunken rails. ‘Subliminal reaction. You see, there, that advertisement for Tweety Wheety? Now leave me alone, whoever you are.’

  ‘I’m none other than Dario La, you should know. The amazing fact that I invented the bicycle pump surely must not have missed your attention. The Penny Weather...’

  ‘Do you mean the Penny Farthing? That was invented at half past three on a cold Wednesday morning.’ Stave was feeling as absurd as the situation was becoming and smiled at his own humour.

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ Dario La replied quickly, raising an eyebrow and puckering his lips.

  ‘I guess I am,’ Stave said.

  ‘Well, I don’t find you funny. In fact, I find you the complete opposite. I have to get out of here and locate my bicycle, it’s imperative. I’m fond of it. I’ve owned it for years.’

  All attention was upon Stave to speak again. But his sight was drawn to the sunken rails in the pit. A stream flowed there, over the red tracks. Minnows darted about polished pebbles and rocks, and the white insulation blocks. The fish occasionally formed groups, making random letters of the alphabet – as ephemeral as a sand painting – before dispersing to arbitrary movements again. Leaves, silver twigs and broken pieces of picture frames floated and moved on the shimmering surface. Stave’s reflection in the stream was joined by reflections from some of the others passengers.

  ‘What’s to see?’ one of the group said.

  ‘Water and pond life trickling down towards the right-hand tunnel. This is the reason that there won’t be another train for at least two days, I guess. We’ll definitely have to find a way out of my real dream.’

  How easy I am succumbing to believe that.

  ‘Your dream? What are you talking about? Are you mad?’ Dario La said loudly, for all to hear. ‘This is my dream. Here, meet Verla, Maurick and Natameil. I concocted them from my mind.’ Three people within the group bowed. ‘They are part of my dream cast. As for getting out, this is a sealed platform, as well you know,’ he said brusquely. ‘I demand you find a solution. I have to get my bicycle back. It’s imperative.’

  The other passengers murmured in agreement.

  ‘And I've got to find my pooch.’

  ‘I need to find a pearl. Like that one.’

  The person who spoke pointed to a corrugated oyster shell under the stream water. It sprang open, showing inside a flat, red tongue with a patinated spherule upon it. The shell snapped shut then, making the sound of a briefcase being closed.

  A female voice: ‘And I have to get to the gathering.’

  Stave inspected the line of twenty or more people with their bowed heads as they looked down to the flooded tracks.

  ‘Do you know Quikso Lebum?’ another man asked him.

  Stave hunted for the business card and upon retrieving it, showed it to the man.

  ‘This Quikso Lebum?’ he said.

  ‘No, that must be a different version,’ he replied. ‘But why do you ask?’

  ‘Why do I ask what?’ said Stave as another dream breeze played invisible games with his mind. ‘It could be we’re all in his dream – it’s decidedly absurd at times. I’m sure mine would be more sensible.’

  ‘Are you calling my dream absurd?’ Dario La barked. ‘I find that offensive. You didn’t take my bicycle, did you?’

  ‘Why should I have taken it? I possibly own one already.’

  In my cottage? Village – and a town. Another sudden memory. Both somewhere that I’m very familiar with…

  ‘It’s not important,’ came an interrupting voice, slow and measured. The figure, at the far end of the platform, stood with a rolled newspaper held high and a claw hand held to his chest. ‘What is important … is that the lot of you get to where you need to go. You’ll be warm and snuggly; beetle-jerking hot, trembling till you rot. But no worries, that’s just the end of the beginning.’

  A woman close to him shuddered upon inspecting the man’s mouth. There were two rows of grey upper teeth there.

  ‘Are you eating peppermints?’ she asked, then gasped at sudden recognition. ‘You’re another agent, aren’t you. And you’re crunching teeth. Have you been following me?’

  ‘Keep away from him,’ Stave called out. ‘He’s been infected; he’s an agent of Tremelon.’

  ‘I know, don’t have to tell me,’ the shocked woman replied. ‘You won’t catch me, you’re limping,’ she added to the man.

  ‘Probably has a cardboard foot,’ yelled Dario La.

  ‘No, that’s only for his enemies. Anyway, let me deal with it,’ Stave said, and he marched up to the trainee agent of Tremelon who limped towards him. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘To enrich the lives of poorly souls,’ the trainee agent replied. ‘Show them the incredible wonders of the good evil understood. Tainted life, sharpened knife.’

  ‘You’re the bus driver again, aren’t you. And talking rot still. Evil is evil. There’s no such thing as good evil.’

  ‘Tremelon Zandar understands the evil in my heart and can transform it into grey and blue. Here, take this as a symbol of his love for the evil in your heart,’ the former bus driver said and, before Stave realised what was happening, the man had hung a cowbell on a ring around his neck.

  ‘Hey, I don’t want this!’ Stave cried out and attempted to remove it, but burned his fingers. ‘What have you done? Take it off, I demand it; I’ve no evil in my heart.’

  But the trainee agent ignored him and limped away.

  Marked. Like Quikso and Mariella with the rosettes.

  Someone else spoke up.

  ‘Don’t worry yourself, it’s just a present from a stranger. Agents of Tremelon don’t look like that. They are short, with an extra finger on their left hand. That could be the reason why they are so awful. I heard one of them cut off the tail of a cat one time.’

  ‘His name is Tremelon Zandar. He will make everyone’s life a misery.’

  ‘My unwanted adversary is called Tremelon. I’d recognise him anywhere. He’s short and wide like a blue crab.’

  ‘My version is slightly different. Trombone Zandibar, he is called. He’s pure evil personified, and I shudder just to say his name.’

  Arguments happened all at once, barking and braying, pushing of shoulders and thrusting forward of heads, each talking as loud as possible so as to be heard above his or her neighbour. The consternation and anger grew, the din they made echoing and amplified by the bare walls of the station.

  ‘Wait, calm down everyone,’ Stave shouted amidst the clamour.

  With this spoken, one of the aroused fellows turned on one foot, as if practicing a ballet step.

  He yelled, ‘Calm down yourself,’ and then, without provocation, pushed Stave in the chest with a mixture of fright and confusion upon his face.

  Stave toppled backwards, his arms flapping in an attempt to retain balance. He fell into the water-filled pit that was the railway tracks. And with a splash, the loudness of the bustling and fighting passengers became a quiet rushing.

  He felt strangely comforted by the water about him.

  15 : UNDERWATER DISCOVERY

  He quickly held his breath. His eyes sprang open while sitting on the submerged tracks. He was about to surface when his attention was drawn to the aggregate that filled the gaps between the rails. On top of it were trinkets, the sort to be found inside boxes of cereal or Christmas crackers.

  Dream summoning is needed so I can inspect them further. I summon some sort of breathing device.

  A snorkel appeared on the aggregate.

  That worked really well.

  He took hold of it and placed it over his face.

  Strange that I feel water on my skin yet not through my clothes.

  H
e dug out some of the trinkets with his fingers. There were models of a goat, a soldier and a lute, all made from plastic, and even a magnifying glass. On one side of the rim of the glass was the word “obverse”. He picked up the concave disc by its handle and held it to the objects, one after the other in the clear water. Looking through it, the magnified moulding of the goat was precise and accurate. He could see every individual hair of its coat. Even the tiny horns had a roughness, like bark, over them. The lute was strung with the finest of strings, and the tuning pegs were seen to be turned to perfection with delicate, minute curls carved into them. The marquetry on the body of the instrument was made with precision. The soldier's epaulets, cap badge and medals were clearly defined, as well as the regalia on the drum.

  Beautiful models created with exquisite detail.

  As he inspected the tassels on the rope hanging from about the soldier’s drum, and a ladybird on the end of one raised drumstick, he heard a dull thumping, as if the drum was being played. He instinctively held a hand to his chest and felt his heartbeat, and the repetitive thumping matched it. He turned to face the direction from which the muffled bangs came from but could only perceive clouds of algae and pondweed.

  He turned back to see all three items he had viewed through the magnifying glass were now full-size – the goat, the lute, and the soldier with his head and shoulders sticking out above the water line.

  Stave marvelled at this for a moment. How could that be possible? But then his reality had become a dream, after all.

  He wondered if the opposite effect would happen, by turning the magnifying glass over.

  He discovered that by turning it to its obverse side, it became a reducing glass: simply by looking through it again, it made the items small once more.

  A useful find. A dream item in a dream world.

  Glowing to his right was a row of fires, as tall as the height of water, their orange flames licking the floating microscopic debris. A fierce barrier, but he was compelled to swim through, all the same. The closer he swam to the fire barrier, the colder he got, and where the flames touched him he felt colder still.

  Beyond the flames stood a door, seemingly made of liquid, as if the water had become jelly and had congealed into its shape. Stave pushed on it and swam through. Onwards he went, over the tracks, sometimes surfacing to see his progress along the tunnel.

  Further on still, he came across a metal hatch under the water. He unclipped it and the drumbeat got louder. He opened the hatch and looked through it, down into the interior of a large boat. The boat’s sides were as tall as an old wooden ship, great chunks of timber curving upwards.

  At the transom end, an agent of Tremelon stood with his plain mask, turning over a sand clock gripped in a crab claw hand, in time to his beating of a drum, the beater held in his other clawed hand.

  Two rows of people sat along the length of the boat. Their feet looked to be made of cardboard. They pushed and pulled on oars. They laughed and talked contentedly as they did this, unaware of their final journey. Lost in their dream that, unbeknown to them, was becoming a nightmare.

  There was no way to help them. Stave closed the hatch.

  He had been clutching the magnifying glass all the while he had been swimming underwater. Upon placing it in a waistcoat pocket, he stood upright into the air of the dimly lit station, the flowing amber water of the track stream now just below his shoulders.

  When he had taken off the snorkel, he could see the same station platform with the same passengers, although they had stopped their squabbles and were in an orderly line again. All of them stood still, with their heads inclined to the source of regular noises and disturbed water. Splashing sounds emanated from the tunnel at one end. It sounded like oars put heavily into the water or the surface being beaten with paddles at a constant rate. Hissing and growling too.

  ‘Get out of there, you fool, before you get squashed or something,’ yelled Dario La, adjusting one of his belts about his belly. Many hands reached out to Stave to help him up, and they hauled him out of the water pit, back onto the dry platform. The level of water began to decrease at a fast rate.

  My clothes are dry.

  Now, reverberating from the darkened tunnel, adding to the sound of slopping and hissing of sprayed liquid, came the noise of squealing and clanging; that of metal scraping over metal, and metal hitting upon metal; with a beat and a pulse and a pace.

  ‘Whoever’s dreaming this unknown terror deserves to be punished,’ someone shouted and his words echoed down the underground train platform.

  16 : SOLID RESCUE UNDERGROUND

  ‘What is it?’ cried out a young woman. ‘I’m getting really worried now.’

  An air of oppressiveness and clamminess descended, no different than that felt with the onset of a storm.

  ‘There isn’t any need to panic everyone, keep calm. It might be a motorboat from the underground resources team, with a crew. Some kind of rescue,’ Stave answered to reassure them all. ‘It could even be…’ he paused, ‘alright, I don’t know what else it could be.’

  Dario La called out over the heads of the others.

  ‘Well, that’s just dandy, isn’t it? He doesn’t know what it is.’

  Stave was becoming annoyed.

  ‘Fine, you tell us what it is, if you think you’re so clever.’

  ‘I never said I was clever. You said you were clever, in your clever green suit.’

  ‘I don’t recall saying anything of the sort. And my suit is turquoise.’

  ‘Turquoise, lurkwoise, whatever. I’m insulted how you are interpreting my dream with the unknown. I was promised a gathering; I promised myself I’d get there. And I must find my bicycle.’

  Feeling real in the unreal yet again, or unreal in the real; whichever it is, swinging from one extreme to the other, a giddy pendulum of emotions.

  ‘Whether it be my dream or yours, it’s still real enough,’ Stave replied, ‘so we’ve all got to pull ourselves together. It could be help on the way for us. I’ll go and see.’

  ‘So you can get to the gathering before me? Typical.’

  ‘I never said that. I’ve no idea how to get to this gathering everyone keeps on talking about, if that satisfies you.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what will satisfy me—’

  ‘Stop squabbling like babies in a pram,’ shouted one of the waiting group. Now there were sounds of the hissing of pistons from inside the tunnel joined with the reverberated noises of splashing and grinding. ‘Whatever it is, it’s getting louder and sending waves down the stream. And the stream’s getting lower, do you see? I think we ought to stand at the other end, to be on the safe side.’

  ‘You can do that if you want, but I’m going up to that tunnel entrance to see what’s coming out,’ Stave said and he marched with determination one way, while the majority of the other passengers walked past him towards the other end, to collect there. They stood close to each other within a mauve shadow, looking like a single, dark block of stone. The trainee agent – the former bus driver – with the double rows of teeth, sat on the platform with his feet above the water. He pushed himself forward and once in, waded away from the noise. As he entered the tunnel at the far end, his shadow disintegrated into grey and blue snake-like shapes, and were taken away by the rippling flow of the stream over the tracks.

  Stave stared intently at the left-hand tunnel mouth, to see the beginning of a magnificent metal horse emerge, at least twelve feet high from head to hoof, and fourteen feet long. Spurts of steam came from its nostrils. Its large head was formed from strips of deep brown iron. The mane was melded strands of alloy, on a thick neck. The huge plated body appeared, made with hexagons of bronze and copper, globules of mercury seeping from under the plates of the giant shoulders. There were spots of verdigris and rust in streaks over the mighty body panels. The artificial creature lifted its heavy hooves – shod with gunmetal – as if a show horse, above the lowering level of water. Each time a hoof descended, a shower of l
iquid shot from the surface. And as the incredible animal machine walked out further, it exposed exotic filigree chiseled onto its copper flanks, and a moulded tail made from fused, spun wire.

  At the base of its thick, metal neck was an iron ring. Through the ring was a wide and stout pole. Attached to either end were long shafts connected to a gypsy caravan behind. Stave watched in awe as the mighty horse pulled the high caravan fully into view. The carved wheels of it were massive and they turned like watermill wheels.

  The front of the caravan was painted in bright shades, the pictures and patterns on them raised as if enamelled. On the side were depictions of moons, suns, and stars as a border, and a life-size image of a jester within. This figure had green leaves woven into his blond hair, his head aimed upwards. There was an impression upon the face of deep thought or complete vacancy of mind, Stave couldn’t decide. The jester wore a decorated tunic with an orange lining showing from the wide sleeves. In his right hand, held up over his shoulder, was a staff, with a red feather and a leather pouch tied to the end. In his left hand was a silver rose. Below the stockinged legs and booted feet – standing on a craggy ledge – was a prancing white dog. The background was vivid yellow, showing snow-tipped mountains and a stylized sun. As Stave walked over to it, the dog's head turned to him, silently panting with the strange terrier’s toothy grin.

  The image of the jester spoke quickly.

  ‘You must follow your dream.’

  Now the gigantic horse and caravan stood on the tracks, completely out of the tunnel. The trimming around the back door and the edges of the caravan was fretwork, showing delicately appreciated wooden coils and swirls.

  Stave sat on the edge of the station platform and jumped into the water-filled rails. He waded over to the caravan and stepped up onto wooden steps at the back of it, then climbed onto a short stage. The metal horse, in all its glory, was perfectly still, except for a nod of the massive head now and then, which gave the sound of screeching metal; and steam rose about it from its flared nostrils.