Turquoise Traveller

by David Griffin

  ‘What do you want to do? Mingle if you wish; stand, walk, don’t walk, sit, take in the warm night atmosphere perhaps; partake of wine or ale. Be smothered in a delightful scent of flowers maybe.’

  Once that was said, with the gentle music pervading the air, roses and carnations fell from nowhere to the perfect grass. The stars were sending down streaks of light which played over the dancing guests dressed in black suits and ballroom gowns. Every time a spot of light passed Stave’s nose there was a delicate aroma. But when the light had passed, he smelled mouldering mushrooms.

  ‘I’m not sure about the odour of decaying fungi,’ Stave said.

  ‘That,’ the announcer replied, ‘would be emanating from the cowbell about your neck, sir. I’d try to avoid it as best you can.’

  ‘Not possible. It’s made of a sort of metal that seems welded to me in some mystical fashion. It worries me; Cassaldra Chimewood tells me there’s no way of getting rid of the awful thing.’

  Stave looked down his aquiline nose to it.

  ‘Ah, you’ve met Cassaldra again, excellent. As I must tell you every time, you are indeed honoured, sir. A wonderful woman. If that is what she says, then that is so.’

  ‘Have you been here long, at the gathering?’

  The man gave a becoming smile.

  ‘For a few months or more, on and off. At least I think it’s been that long. Or was it yesterday or the day before? Time is meaningless in a way, where we are.’

  Stave raised his eyebrows.

  ‘That long in a reality dream? That’s presuming you know you are dreaming within the wakeful real.’

  His attention was drawn away for a moment by the topiary hares loping across the tops of the bushes for a few seconds, and flashes of yellow and red lightning illuminating distant hills. Through a wide gap in one of the hedges could be seen the still waters of a dark lake. The occasional fish would leap from out of it, and where the circular ripples reached the edge of the lake, magenta sparks flew and sparkled with the sounds of tinkling bells.

  The man said, ‘Yes, I do know I am dreaming. Not that everyone here does. Those would be the invited dreamers within a lucid dreamers’ realm. Not counting the others.’

  ‘You mean the dream cast? Dreams of the dreamers.’

  ‘Yes, dreams of the dreamers; while a few could be agents of Tremelon.’

  ‘We should all go back,’ Stave said. ‘That way, they can’t affect anyone.’

  There was a slight breeze within the pleasant warmth of the night.

  The announcer became serious.

  ‘Go back where? And even if we knew where, we can’t,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Many of us have been here for a long time. We are all trapped, waiting for Marcello Sanctifus to show us the way.’

  ‘And what will happen when he shows you the way?’

  ‘Sir, miracles will happen.’

  As the announcer’s sight flicked to Stave’s cowbell again, there were smiles and light laughter from the parading and twirling guests on the grass. Winding between their legs was a miniature steam train, the size of a greyhound. A mechanical device on the front fetched track lines from thin air, laying them before it as it went. Yellow smoke came from its chimney, forming into cubes and spheres before disappearing into the night air. The train pulled a small coach and as it approached any dancing couple, it deftly changed direction to avoid a collision. It twisted and turned, chugging around them and between them. The tracks behind the carriage were picked up by another mechanical hand and placed into the top of it. The train appeared as playful as any young canine; indeed, some were beckoning it and patting their knees.

  I could do with a drink. And I don’t give permission for my thoughts to be heard.

  ‘You want a drink,’ the announcer stated and a glass of red wine appeared, balancing on his upturned palm. Then with his hand extending from a white sleeve with cufflinks showing, he gave Stave the glass.

  ‘Did you read my mind as well? How annoying.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be annoying at all. Here in the gathering, there is a form of collective consciousness even though we retain our individuality. You’ll get used to it. It is a difficult concept to grasp and many don’t bother to anyway. Whether or not you understand the principles of the realms is not important.’

  ‘But I didn’t give you permission.’

  ‘I see what you mean. That is true: choice has been taken away here. That’ll be more nefarious meddling by the evil ones. Sometimes it works to block your thoughts if you wish, other times it doesn’t.’

  ‘What if I thought a bad thing?’ Stave asked, as the little train raced up to him, immediately placing a curved piece of track before it and rolling around him. ‘I could decide that the small, black train was an angry, venomous snake, for instance.’

  ‘All goodly guests here have no conscious desire to hurt anyone, you included. You wouldn’t harm anyone in reality nor will you be able to here. Apart from that, very few people have the ability to amend the dream reality. That is one of the gifts which we will be taught by Marcello Sanctifus. See for yourself – think something bad and there will be no effect.’

  The train will transform into a ten feet long cobra, spitting acid.

  Immediately, the train became an extended, coiling snake made of green felt, some of the cotton wool stuffing showing from splits along its length. As it wound about the delighted people, it would occasionally rise up as if about to strike and cough a cotton ball from its roughly sewn mouth. There was light applause.

  ‘I am truly impressed,’ the announcer said. ‘Dream summoning at its best. How did you do that without being taught?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve had a small amount of practice,’ Stave replied.

  ‘Excellent. That ability will see you in good stead for the future. So you see, you cannot cause problems. Even Tremelon has trouble causing trouble. He has to devise ways of leading people away.’

  ‘To their nightmare, I know; I’ve learned that one.’

  The lilting music stopped. Now could be heard a steady beat, emanating from an entrance to a marquee. This was set in another perfect square of grass, seen through an opening of one of the hedges.

  Stave continued, ‘Well, he won’t get me. And as much as I like it here at the gathering, I’ll find a way back to true non-dream reality.’

  ‘I don’t know how you propose to do that. No one has succeeded for a long while. I’m not sure what you consider to be reality anyway,’ the announcer replied. A woman with a coiled bun of hair came up to him and fluttered her eyelashes through her eye mask. ‘Ah, the delightful Alicia. Now if you will excuse me, I wish to dance,’ he said with a slight bow.

  ‘Of course,’ Stave replied but already the pair were twirling and parading over the evenly-lit grass, in front of the small lake reflecting the stars. Other couples were matching their movements and gestures. With waves of the hand, sparkling tinsel twisted in the air. With just the drumbeat emanating from the marquee, it became a ritualistic affair, as if they were attempting to pluck metaphysical truths from the night sky.

  Stave took a few sips of his wine, placed the glass onto a white table, and walked nearer to the marquee entrance. The beat became stronger. Two people came out of the entrance, running towards him, their bodies jolting to the rhythm as if the sound was a physical object pounding the pair.

  Stave immediately recognised them.

  ‘Hi, remember me?’ he said to the youth with the dark hair fringe across one eye and the studded dog collar about his neck.

  ‘Sure I do,’ Quikso Lebum replied. ‘Going well? I thought you were shopping. And here is Mariella,’ and he nodded towards the young woman.

  Mariella glared and said with an annoyed tone, ‘Don’t introduce me, we’ve already met several times.’

  The muscles in her thin calf muscles were taught as if she was ready to spring away at any moment. Yet she seemed to lean closer to Quikso, as though she had something to hide behind his back.


  Stave looked to Quikso for some clue as to why Mariella would not want to be introduced again. After all, he had helped her with the hooks for her wooden fish. He did, however, leave her on the underground train. Quikso picked up on the querulous expression upon Stave’s face.

  ‘It’s not you, it's me upsetting her. We seem to have a hand problem – we’re holding hands and Mariella doesn’t like it.’

  ‘Well, release hands then,’ Stave suggested, as obvious as it was. He looked to Mariella’s unblemished face with the dark mascara and painted lips. ‘Glad you found your way to the gathering from the underground train.’

  With the slim, free hand she stroked her once mahogany then blonde hair, now turned black, as if to comfort herself. And then, with tears springing from her distraught eyes, she ran, seemingly pulling Quikso away with her with the other hand, while he shouted out, ‘You don’t understand, Stave Swirler.’

  The dancing couples had transformed into swaying trees, their exposed roots tapping at the leaf-strewn grass. Regular openings appeared down each trunk as if they could be some musical instrument, like an oboe or clarinet. Indeed, as waves of white and yellow silk sheets appeared from out of the openings, strange flute sounds frosted the air.

  The silk sheets spun and spiralled in a beautiful dance.

  A ballet of primal wraiths.

  As those sheets moved, combining and parting about each other, all the while interacting with precision, they changed hues within mirage patterns about them.

  Some of the gathering guests clapped their hands together while others laughed with delight at this dream episode.

  A few of the animated silk sheets dropped to the superb lawn. And as they faded to nothing, Stave saw tiny objects on the emerald grass: three more miniature feathers.

  He picked them up and put them into a pocket of his turquoise trousers with the others.

  My unusual collection is coming on well.

  Just as the dancing silk sheets remaining in the air began to combine in kaleidoscopic patterns, there was panic within the gathering guests. The cowbell around Stave’s neck tightened and played with its clanging tone, giving off the smell of rotting mushrooms.

  22 : REFLECTIONS OF EVIL DISGUISED

  ‘Agents of Tremelon close; beware, everyone,’ someone shrieked.

  The lake had become the sky, the sky now the shimmering lake. This watery glassy ceiling mirrored the gathering guests and the cloudy lawn. Billowing blooms of blue smoke above were descending from it, smelling of rust.

  Don’t look up. Another evil venture by Tremelon Zandar.

  Those that did look up with fascination to the sky water, now choppy as if sea waves blown by a strong wind, saw their own reflections staring back at them – except for their masks. No longer eye masks upon them in the reflections, but full masks. Their visages upon them were at rest and emotionless, eyes closed, as if made from plaster that had been cast over their sleeping faces. The assembled few not looking upwards gazed with fascination at being able to walk through night clouds.

  ‘You’ve all got to get out,’ Stave shouted out to the guests and he ran from one still figure to another, attempting to bring their heads down.

  The topiary hares loped fast amongst the crowd and through the ground clouds as though in fright.

  Quikso wove his way between those seemingly hypnotised standing guests, with Mariella close behind him.

  As smoke serpents were dropping to the grass from out of the lake water above that had turned ink blue, Mariella’s shrill voice was heard above a sudden humming breeze, ‘Leave me alone!’

  Yet she still held hands with Quikso as she pulled him back towards the gap in the hedge, over to the entrance of the marquee.

  Why doesn’t she simply unlink hands? Peculiar behaviour.

  Stave returned his attention to the entranced guests with their sights locked to the sky lake.

  ‘Escape while you can!’ he shouted to those guests milling aimlessly about through the clouds, while pulling at the frozen ones.

  Stave decided to go after Quikso and Mariella.

  ‘Quickly, follow me,’ he bellowed to those guests still open to his suggestion.

  He too went through the gap in the hedge, across a red carpet strewn with flowers, and then headed for the canvas marquee.

  23 : ACROBATS AND STRANGERS

  Inside the marquee was a vast arena. Many people strolled about, mingling and dispersing over the squares of grass that were painted with geometric designs. The powerful beat of the drum still throbbed like a heartbeat. In the centre of the arena stood the frontage of a tall, curved amphitheatre made of stone, with white, fluted columns and many windows and doors placed around its perimeter. High up, between those columns, stood formidable statues cast in bronze. They came to life at random to beckon, wave or point. One blew kisses, another bowed, before transforming into toucans. And once transformed, they called out with rasping, donkey-like cries. Higher still, just below the canvas folds of the marquee roof, a never-ending group of acrobats performed, dressed in green tights and leotards. They worked together in pairs, hanging by their legs from rope swings, before leaping energetically through the air. In mid-flight they would transform into brightly plumed parrots before flying through circular holes in the marquee roof, another pair of acrobats appearing on the rope swing to repeat the process.

  Each person walking by in the marquee was dressed in a fancy dress costume: medieval, Victorian, modern, and there was an air of happiness and contentment about all of them. Stave was feeling the same. Wandering between the crowd, strangers would bid him good day or greet him cordially. He espied Dario La, smiling contentedly, pushing a bicycle between the milling people. He was walking past a massive yellow statue that stood as high as the splendid amphitheatre. Surrounding the base of the impressive statue – that of an old man seated, reading a book – stood many lit oil lamps casting their combined ambient glow over the pedestrians strolling by. The statue’s face showed benign warmth of spirit and kindness.

  Stave went over to it and looked up at its magnificence.

  ‘Amazing, don’t you think,’ a stranger commented to him. ‘A perfect work of art.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Stave replied. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Why, none other than Marcello Sanctifus. He insists we demolish it but then he is a very modest man. We all insist it should stay here in honour of his greatness.’

  ‘I wonder when he will appear at the gathering.’

  ‘We all wonder that too,’ the man said and walked away.

  Stave did the same and decided to investigate a massive globe of light hovering at the perimeter of the marquee. It sent out bright rays across the passers-by, casting them in daylight.

  Then his attention was caught by seeing Quikso Lebum and his seemingly attached lady friend, standing before one of the doors of the amphitheatre. They appeared to be arguing. Mariella was attempting to pull her hand away from Quikso’s grip but still without success.

  Stave felt he must speak with them again but as he changed course to do that, a couple barred his way.

  ‘Stave – Stave Swirler? Well I never,’ the portly man said, biting his bottom lip, a generous smile growing suddenly. He glanced at the slender woman beside him who gently bowed her head, and she smiled as well, but coyly.

  Stave studied them: a small man, with sideburns and a moustache, neatly dressed in what appeared to be Edwardian attire, and his partner – presumably his wife – in a billowing dress that seemed too large for her. She had a way of swaying from side to side as if unsteady on her feet or an affectation of shyness. They looked to each other, still smiling broadly and nodding.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t recollect our meeting.’

  The man chuckled and with more nodding, he moved forward and patted Stave on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m Berland Underwood, and this is my wife, Marigild. Quite simply, we have met you before but you haven’t met us yet, until now.’

  Stav
e frowned.

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Exactly what we said when we met you last time,’ replied Berland. ‘Time is strange here, isn’t it.’ His generous smile returned and he nodded again to his wife.

  Stave found the constant nodding and smiling to be annoying. He shook his head and rubbed his hair.

  ‘I’m sorry to say but I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he replied. At that moment, the globe of light descended upon a group of people to the left of him. Immediately they began to gyrate and twist their limbs, dancing to music only they could hear. ‘Anyway, lovely to meet you both but now, if you will excuse me, I need to speak with someone.’

  Stave walked quickly away, weaving between the strolling revellers, towards Quikso and Mariella. As he neared them, both standing by one of the large metal and glass double doors set into the amphitheatre, Mariella began pulling Quikso through one of the open doors, a shriek of despair from her.

  24 : WHEN DOUBLE IS TROUBLE

  Stave walked with a fast pace between the crowds of people, as they nodded and smiled to him as though infected by Berland Underwood’s affectations, and some said, ‘Hello there’, ‘Good afternoon’, or ‘A fine morning’. Then he followed Quikso and Mariella through the door of the amphitheatre.

  There were fewer people in the large and brightly lit foyer. Two girls fed grass from leather pouches to beautifully painted horses. Those horses were from a fairground ride, free from their roundabout though still with the barley-twist poles sticking from out of their shoulder blades.

  After walking across the foyer between the snorting and snuffling animals, he saw Quikso and Mariella at the top of a flight of carpeted stairs.

  He was about to follow up when his progress was blocked.

  ‘You can’t go up there without a ticket,’ a stout man with sideburns said abruptly. He adjusted the lapel on his Edwardian evening suit and looked to his wife who stood beside him as if waiting for affirmation. ‘What sort of ticket have you got? Red, pink, blue? Turquoise, I’m guessing.’