‘You’re Berland Underwood, aren’t you?’ Stave replied, ignoring the question. ‘Nice to meet you and your wife again after such a short time. But how you got here before me, I’m not sure.’
The man looked confused.
‘Have we met before? I don’t remember our meeting before. Where have we met before?’ he said and he looked to his wife Marigild, as if expecting her to answer.
‘In the marquee, a minute ago,’ Stave replied.
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘That’s what you said I said.’
‘I’m not certain who you met, sir, but it couldn’t have been me. I’ve been here for hours. Haven’t I, dear?’
Marigild merely looked embarrassed and shuffled on the spot in her overlarge dress.
‘Perhaps you have a twin? No, I doubt it,’ Stave said. ‘A time tangle, isn’t it. To be expected, the way things are here.’
‘A time tangle, indeed, yes, it could be. I’ve had experience of a few of those in my time, if you excuse the pun,’ replied Berland. ‘Now then, back to the business of a ticket,’ and he put out a hand as if needing it to be shaken.
Stave had learned that part of dream logic was absurdity. With that in mind, he took off his eye mask and placed it in Berland’s palm. And without much surprise, the man grinned and said, ‘That’s fine. Go on through. Don’t forget your receipt,’ and he handed Stave a round mirror, no more than three inches in diameter.
‘Thank you,’ Stave said.
He pocketed the mirror, ran up the stairs, and then went through a panelled door into a dimly lit theatre.
Inside were rows of red velvet seats, facing a curtain over a stage. The curtain looked to be made of a blueish liquid. It undulated and swayed as the lights from the chandeliers – hanging from the wavering patterned ceiling – became brighter before dimming again.
Mariella was standing and wriggling by one of the seats; Quikso pulled her down to sit beside him. Most of the other seats were occupied with chatting spectators, excitedly anticipating the start of a performance. Stave sat on an empty seat behind Quikso and Mariella.
He was about to speak to them when the chandeliers, in their gothic splendour, dimmed further and finally went out. They rotated, before moving across to the cornices of the ornate theatre ceiling.
From each side of the undulating safety curtain, two massive articulated puppets descended – as tall as the theatre stage – made of crudely painted cardboard and timber. They jiggled and wiggled their grotesque faces, their crazy straw hair waving as though in a breeze. Peculiar squawks and squeals emanated from them as if they were conversing in an obscure and unique language. The excited audience patted their legs and as another dream wind blew over Stave, he felt compelled to do the same.
A cardboard cutout of a conductor rose from the orchestra pit.
The curtains dissolved and on the stage, with the sounds of a trumpet, stood a backdrop of a pretty country cottage set in a sunlit woodland. Three simple wooden arches rose up in front of the backdrop.
Stave stood and pointed to the image of the house.
‘That is my house, I’m sure of it,’ he shouted out.
Feint remembrance of light, of absorption into acceptance of wonderment. But no more. Memories are gone before me – from inner and outer mind again – as quickly as a passing of a fast train.
A man appeared from out of a stage wing, wearing a complete mask made of cardboard. It had a roughly drawn face upon it, painted in grey. He wore blue gloves. He tapped a gloved hand at his anonymous clothing. It evaporated as if it had been some form of ectoplasm, to reveal a turquoise suit.
Why should he be copying my clothing?
With another flourish of hands in blue gloves, his mask was pulled away to reveal another mask, showing the face of Stave Swirler, identical in every detail.
That same face as mine is smiling hideously, with the edges of the mouth touching the corners of the nose. A devil grin, if ever I saw one.
The articulated puppets continued to jiggle and rattle. The imposter spoke evenly, matching Stave’s voice tone perfectly.
‘Nightmare one. The one nightmare,’ the doppelgänger said.
Two angelfish, each five feet or more across, floated onto the stage, nipping at the floorboards. Their eyes looked like whorls of pus. Then guppies the size of terriers came from the theatre wings, growling as they swam in the air in swirls.
This beginning of a nightmare in a dream is becoming wearisome.
The dream wind, previously smelling of lavender, turned into the stench of rotting vegetables. Stave was forgetting even where he was or what he was doing. He felt sick and dizzy but remembered one thing: a copycat was trying to imitate him. He left his theatre seat with an urgency, made his way to the end of the row, walked down the aisle, and up to the stage.
‘Why are you copying me? Who are you? What agent are you?’ he demanded.
The imposter continued his lunatic grin, and said simply, ‘You can never win.’
The watching audience clapped hands on their knees.
‘When this dream wind has finished gusting, I will,’ Stave replied. ‘Let me on stage.’
The audience pounded on their chests like gibbons, some cheering.
I demand to be let on stage so we can sort this out, man to man.
This time, the audience erupted into a tumultuous noise as they stamped their feet on the floor, along with hooting and hollering. The gigantic puppets either side of the stage danced in their grotesque fashion, their unintelligible utterances becoming louder and even more garbled.
There was a poignant pause, an air of expectation, then the whole of the stage descended to ground level with the sounds of pistons firing and the smell of gunshot.
‘You’ll never remember,’ the copycat said.
‘Remember what?’ Stave shouted as he ran between the footlights onto the stage floorboards. He turned to view the audience who had transformed into mannequins, except for Quikso and Mariella. They were still squabbling in their seats, the yellow glare from the stage lights revolving to light them.
‘Remember what?’ echoed the duplicate, now at eye level with Stave Swirler. ‘That I’m Swave Stirrer?’ and he wove in and out of the three arches, before morphing into a limping dog and then scuttled into one of the wings.
‘You have to remember for all of us to remember,’ Quikso cried out, leaving his seat and pulling Mariella with him along the velvet-carpeted aisle.
‘But I only remember so much,’ Stave called to him, as his neared. ‘Dream winds play tricks with my mind; I keep on forgetting.’
Agents of Tremelon, snapped into Stave’s mind. That much he remembered.
‘The agents are becoming stronger. Only they fully remember, and that must change,’ Quikso said.
‘I’m beginning to understand. This simple dream we are in is becoming a complicated nightmare. But what to do?’
Quikso was near, with Mariella looking solemn at his side.
‘We have to stop Tremelon and his evil agents from continuing to overtake,’ he said. ‘You must not fail to eradicate all of their presences from the realm.’
Now I recall Cassaldra telling me as much.
‘But how? Kill them? I can’t do that. I’ve never killed anyone in my life. And I’m not about to start now.’
‘No, you must find another way. And anyhow, that’s what Tremelon wants you to do.’
‘To kill him? But why?’
‘Yes, he wants you to kill him,’ answered Quikso. ‘Because he…’
At that moment, the duplicate Stave Swirler walked out from the stage wing, still wearing a turquoise suit. He went across the bare floorboards of the stage, kicking some of the footlights out of the way and knocking down the cardboard conductor with a casual flick of the arm.
‘Enough,’ he ordered, his voice no longer matching Stave’s, now a grating growl. He pulled off the final mask to expose the sneering features of the former bus dr
iver who had become the maintenance man. He swallowed his double top rows of teeth and another double row appeared straight after. His eyes were still shut. ‘Your aura is too bright.’ He removed his blue gloves to reveal his crab-like claws. ‘You don’t wish to follow us, so you are against us. This is your new void, Stave Swirler, and it’s about time you were punished – sharp knife, no wife,’ he announced.
He looked to the carpet. A lit blowtorch appeared. He picked it up.
So now he can dream summon too…
The chandeliers moved over the ceiling and descended to the seated audience of mannequins, to directly above their motionless heads. The red velvet-covered seats turned to cardboard, collapsing to the ground, toppling the mannequin audience onto the floor. They crawled away into the corners, to leave a carpeted area with ten large chandeliers at eye level, hanging from their thick chains.
A chase started between the chandeliers: the agent of Tremelon ran from one to the other, pushing them into Stave while clutching the blowtorch. His other claw hand snapped open and shut. Stave avoided the swinging chandeliers where possible, keeping his distance from his enemy.
Then the agent stopped. He sneered while he placed the blowtorch onto the stage. He appeared to be concentrating.
He’s going to manipulate the dream again…
A long and thick rope, with a noose at each end, fell from the top of the theatre and hung in front of the wooden arches: the nooses had dropped about the ridiculous heads of the large, dancing puppets. The jagged, rattling skeleton of a horse hung upside down from the rope, its hooves tied together with a cord. It gave a pitiful neighing.
‘Now you go to nightmare, to the lair,’ the former bus driver said and clapped his clawed hands together.
The dream wind became a gusting, evil-smelling gale.
Stave’s vision changed in an instant, with a searing pain across his forehead, his heart lurching. He felt his spirit being pulled aggressively from his body.
He tried to resist but it was impossible to fight. He dropped to his knees, feeling the attraction of the horse skeleton as if it were a magnet. He crawled towards it and when under its ribcage, the sternum of the horse cracked in half and the ribs hinged wide open. The puppets leant inwards so that the rope lowered even more. The cage of ribs were either side of him. They closed under him and scooped him up.
Instantly, his spirit moulded to the inside of the skeleton, with utter terror taking him over.
He looked out from the empty eye sockets of the skeleton horse’s skull.
My flesh melted into the marrow. I’m empty of hope; painful limbs, not enough strength to ignore the sounds of laughter mocking me.
He saw through distressed, clouded vision the ornate ceiling, and Quikso and Mariella being chased by the agent across the theatre floor. The pair moved with speed between the chandeliers as they attempted to escape. They still held each other’s hand.
Mariella cried out the obvious to Stave, as she pulled Quikso to the stage area.
‘You have to escape before it’s too late!’
But how? As I hover between consciousness and abandonment of mind, I feel the absence of my flesh, my spirit incarcerated within these alien bones. Coldness and darkness descending, aggravating the pervasive aching…yet even more torment is on its way, I know. I feel like I must resign my spirit soon. I have no choice.
Stave spoke in a pained voice but it came out as gurgling as if his vocal cords were made of curdled milk.
‘Can’t…help…myself.’
Yet he must: with a concerted effort, he made another attempt to be free of his prison. But it was useless.
Quikso had an idea. He ran over to blowtorch, picked it up, then went hurriedly over to the horse skeleton containing the spirit and body of Stave. With his loose hand, he held the blowtorch flame to the cord binding the hooves to the main rope.
The horse skeleton dropped to the floorboards of the stage with a clatter and Stave was jolted back to his own body. He prised open the ribcage and crawled out. The grotesque puppets lurched forward into the theatre and collapsed into untidy piles.
The agent of Tremelon who had been the bus driver snorted and simply said, ‘Next time,’ before walking through the middle arch, a black cloth dropping down to cover him.
‘What magician trick is that now,’ cried out Stave, as he stood, ‘and where is he going?’
‘Anywhere that you have been before,’ Quikso answered.
‘Why?’
‘To spoil, corrupt, destroy everything which is yours. And if he succeeds, my realm will be next.’
‘You talk about realms as if I know what you mean,’ said Stave.
‘I’ve been taught each of us have their own realm, all of which have become infiltrated by evil. I’ve no recollection of my realm but now know I own one.’
‘At least we’re understanding who the enemy is, although the reason is still a mystery.’
How are you feeling after your ordeal?’ Quikso asked.
‘Sore inside and unsteady on my feet, thanks for asking. But give me a while, I’ll be back to normal. Whatever normal is, where we are.’ Stave paused, before adding, ‘Tell me, you were going to mention why Tremelon wants me to kill him.’
‘Because he knows you can’t succeed in that way. He can’t die anymore. But by trying to kill him, by giving physical pain to another, you will have failed and lost everything.’
‘Then I must learn how to eradicate him from the realms without giving pain?’
‘Precisely,’ Quikso said. ‘Are you feeling ill? You don’t look well; you’re shivering.’
Stave still shuddered from the horrifying experience in the horse skeleton.
‘I’m OK, thanks, settling down. What to do now to solve these terrible situations?’
Mariella interrupted.
‘How to solve my terrible situation first.’
‘And what would that be?’ Stave asked.
She brought her hand and arm from behind her back and Stave understood immediately why they were seen to be constantly holding hands. Their fingers and palms were fused together.
‘You see now?’ she said.
‘How did that happen?’
‘Another of Tremelon Zandar’s nightmares. He’s getting imaginative,’ Quikso said. ‘We’ve tried everything we can think of but it seems we’re stuck together for good.’
Stave thought for a moment.
‘What’s needed is dream logic,’ he answered. ‘I understand the principles now. To believe something will happen is sometimes enough.’
Quikso sighed with impatience.
‘Sorry, but don’t you think we want to be free of this? No matter how hard we believe it, we can’t separate. And don’t tell me we’re not believing enough.’
‘Then we must try something else. Here’s my dream logic: hug each other.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply that – hug each other,’ Stave repeated. ‘Make sure the rosettes are close, with the fused hands in between.’
‘It can’t be as easy as that but it’s worth a try. Mariella, do you mind?’
‘I’m quite fed up with you already – as long as you don’t overdo it.’
With a slightly embarrassed and awkward hug, they ensured the fused hands were between the rosettes. And after, their hands were separated.
Mariella said with a relieved smile, ‘Thank you so much.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Stave replied.
‘Yes, thanks, far easier than I’d thought possible,’ Quikso said.
There was a pause before Stave asked, ‘What do we know about Tremelon Zandar?’
‘Not much, only that he is a different person for everyone; that he loves snakes—’
‘What sort of snakes?’ Mariella asked.
‘Any sort,’ Quikso continued. ‘It’s a similar feature within most of his nightmare scenarios. And he likes to torture people, with snakes in particular. For certain, our reality will become ev
en more of a bad dream if we allow him and the agents to continue. We have to make it our good dream in reality, to stabilise our world which has been stolen from us. We must decide our next course of action.’
‘I’ve decided,’ Stave answered. ‘I’m going to follow the agent. I suggest you two stay here.’
Mariella raised her eyebrows but nodded all the same.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Quikso said.
‘I’d prefer to go it alone, if you don’t mind,’ Stave replied. ‘Providing the gathering is clear, I suggest you join those others who are waiting for the arrival of Marcello Sanctifus. Or if not, stay in the marquee again. You’ll be safe there. I will follow the agent to find Tremelon Zandar.’
Further into the dream territory gone bad.
He went over to the middle wooden arch and pushed aside the dust-covered curtain.
25 : ALONG AND DOWN
A long corridor was exposed beyond, consisting of grey walls and floor, dimly lit, with patches of ice upon them.
Stave stepped forward and turned back to the curtain hanging from the arch. But it had gone – in its place stood another grey wall. Attached to that was a brass hook.
Immediately, he sensed a depressing atmosphere descend.
My mind is grey because of these walls. Or is it the other way around? Oppressive, despite the coldness. But I must continue, to find Tremelon Zandar. He is despicable for what he’s doing to me and others. It must stop. Don’t know how yet, but I will find a way, I swear.
He began walking along the chilly corridor, checking the walls for any exits. The corridor seemed monotonous, lacking variation, and endless. A place devoid of imagination or creativity. Above was a sombre sky smeared with purple streaks.
He looked ahead. Another frosty corridor led off to the right. He went swiftly to it, rubbing his cold hands together. Upon turning the corner, he saw a simple table at the end. It stood against a back wall with an unidentified object upon its polished top.
While striding towards the table, he avoided areas of frost and ice on the grey floor. More corridors branched off from the one he walked along. He guessed there might be a labyrinth of corridors.
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