Dream Master Nightmare!

by Theresa Breslin

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Also by Theresa Breslin

  Copyright

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  ‘We’re in trouble,’ said the Dream Master. ‘Twenty Types of Trouble – Double Mixed!’

  Every dream needs a master – someone in charge, just like someone telling a story. But when Cy has a go at running his own dream, everything goes horribly wrong. Suddenly Viking invaders are burning down a village, chasing after him with huge axes – and a bossy Saxon princess thinks he is a useless swineherd! His dream is out of control!

  Only Cy can sort it out. It’s his dream, his story. And if he fails, the bloodthirsty barbarians in his dream could burst through into real life . . .

  Switch from now to then and back again in this hilarious tale from award-winning author Theresa Breslin.

  Dream Master

  Nightmare!

  Theresa Breslin

  Illustrated by David Wyatt

  This book is for HR, and he’ll know why

  CHAPTER •1•

  ‘MOVE!’ SHRIEKED THE girl as Cy skidded to a halt at the entrance to the house. She elbowed him hard in the back. ‘Get inside! They’re right behind us!’

  There was a thud, and the sound of splintering wood as an axe crunched into the door just to the left of Cy’s head.

  ‘See?’ the girl shouted right into Cy’s face. ‘Now come on!’

  For the briefest second Cy hesitated. The girl pushed past him, flung the door open, then grabbed his arm and dragged him inside.

  ‘Put the bar across,’ she ordered him, her bright blue eyes snapping with impatience, ‘and then help me with Grandfather.’

  Cy looked around helplessly. What bar? Across where?

  The girl was by the hearth in the middle of the floor helping an old man to his feet. She glanced up at Cy. ‘There!’ she shrieked again, pointing to a wooden stave propped upright behind the door.

  Cy lifted the piece of wood and clumsily slotted it into place. Just in time. There was a thunderous battering and the wooden planks of the door began to vibrate.

  ‘We must hurry, Grandfather.’ The girl spoke urgently but more gently. ‘The raiders have come, and we must flee.’

  The old man’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘Yes, but to where, daughter?’

  Cy nodded in agreement. He was with the grandfather on this one. Exactly where were they going to escape to?

  As if she had heard his thought, the girl looked at Cy. ‘Go first,’ she said, ‘and open the way through to the pigpen.’

  ‘Pigpen?’ Cy stared at her stupidly. ‘Where is the way to the pigpen?’ he asked.

  Cy hadn’t thought it possible that she could screech even higher than she had before, but her voice moved up several decibels as she yelled at him.

  ‘I don’t believe it! A swineherd who does not know where the pigpen is? It is that way!’ She had her grandfather’s arm across her own shoulder and was trying to support him as they stumbled across the room.

  ‘A swineherd!’ cried Cy. ‘Me a swineherd? No way!’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I am not being a swineherd.’

  ‘What?’ The girl stared at him.

  Well, that had shut her up for a moment, thought Cy. Which gave him a bit of time to think things out. He hated having dreams like this, when everything seemed to be rolling along nicely – and then suddenly your dream took a nasty turn and there was nothing you could do about it. Well, he was not about to let that happen this time. He’d had previous experience in making his dreams go the way he wanted them to. It just took a bit of willpower and hard concentration. Cy shook his head in a determined manner. ‘I am not being a swineherd,’ he repeated.

  ‘But you are a swineherd,’ said the girl. ‘You are Cy, the swineherd.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Cy. ‘And I suppose you are a princess?’

  ‘Well . . . yes. I am Hilde, a Saxon princess of the royal house of Edgar.’ The girl looked bewildered. ‘But this you already know.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Cy. ‘I thought so! You’re a princess, and all I get to be is a swineherd. I don’t think so.’ He shook his head from side to side. He wasn’t budging on this. Being a swineherd was certainly not in his dream plan. When he had first landed in this Viking dream Cy had decided at once that he should have a major part. He would march with the army of the English King Eadred to do battle against the Vikings at Stainmore, and try to drive them out of Northumbria. But then, just as the dream had started to get going, Cy had had a different idea. It had occurred to him that it might be a bit more exciting to be an actual Viking, or at least take part in a Viking raid. And no sooner had the thought clicked into place when suddenly he was running with this girl through wynds and alleyways in some medieval city.

  Cy looked around him. Ending up in a cramped hovel, accompanied by an old man and a bossy girl, being pursued by bloodthirsty barbarians was certainly not what he had intended. This dream was going way off course.

  ‘You are what you are,’ said Hilde. ‘A swineherd.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Cy. ‘Not this time. This is my dream, so I am what I want to be.’

  ‘Your dream,’ Hilde repeated in disbelief. ‘You think this is a dream?’

  ‘It’s not an ordinary dream,’ explained Cy. ‘Usually when you dream, your dreams are inside your head. But with this,’ he held up his piece of dreamsilk, ‘it works the other way about. It’s part of my Dream Master’s dreamcloak. Using it, I can take myself right inside my own dream. So now I’m practising being a Dream Master. This is my dream, which means I decide what happens . . .’

  Cy’s voice faltered for a second. He had just remembered that his Dream Master had warned him that he should NEVER switch characters or storylines in the middle of a dream.

  ‘Stories are very powerful things,’ the little man had once told him. ‘Don’t mess with them, or it can end up an absolute disaster. Look what happened with the Titanic.’

  ‘But that actually did really happen,’ Cy had protested.

  The Dream Master had shuddered. ‘Exactly,’ he said.

  Thank goodness the little dwarf wasn’t here to criticize him, thought Cy. Helped by his own tiny piece of torn dreamsilk Cy was managing just fine on his own. Who needed the crabby dwarf with his dreamcloak? Now . . . if he could get a minute’s peace from this girl . . . Already she was opening her mouth to speak again. Cy held up his hand. ‘Shush,’ he said, ‘until I think up what happens next.’

  ‘Others have already decided what is happening here,’ cried Hilde. She stepped forward and viciously kicked open the lattice gate which led to the backyard. ‘Now come and help me with my grandfather.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Cy. He was about to point out that dumb the Vikings weren’t, and by now it would probably have occurred to their pursuers to run round to the back of the house, when he stopped and sniffed the air. There was an odd, dangerous smell stinging his nostrils, and then a crackling noise came from above his head. Cy looked up.

  ‘Omigosh!’ he yelped.

  The r
aiders had thought of a simpler way of forcing them out of the house. The roof was on fire.

  ‘The roof’s on fire!’ Cy shouted.

  ‘Well, there’s a surprise,’ said Hilde sarcastically. ‘Who would have thought it? The Vikings have only done that to every single other settlement all along this coast.’ She turned round and glared at Cy. ‘Fear has addled your wits, swineherd,’ she said, ‘and I cannot care for both you and grandfather. So, follow on while I try to get him by the path to the river, or . . .’ she glanced up at the roof and then at Cy, ‘ . . . stay here and burn.’ She bent down and squirmed through the low opening in the back wall.

  Cy stopped in the centre of the room. ‘No,’ he told himself resolutely. ‘I am going to change this dream. It just needs some proper concentration.’ He screwed up his face and thought as hard as he could. This was what he was good at. Everybody said so: his teacher, friends, family. There wasn’t much else he could do without falling over his feet. But making up stories was his best subject. His Grampa always told him that he had a great imagination. So, he would use it now and dream up a better scene than this. After a few seconds Cy opened his eyes.

  Thick smoke was pouring down into the room, and red flames were reaching out along the roof beams. Cy was about to close his eyes and try again when, with a great shattering crash, the door to the street split apart.

  A tall bearded Viking warrior stood in the doorway brandishing a shield and a sword. On his head he wore a helmet, a heavy metal helmet with earflaps and a long flat central nose-piece. From within the eye sockets two eyes stared out with murderous intent.

  The Viking raised his sword, roared his war-cry and sprang forwards. At that moment part of the roof beam fell down felling him to the ground and sending a shower of burning sparks over Cy.

  Cy screamed and ran for the lattice gate. As he dived through he felt the most almighty horrid crack as his head connected with the door lintel.

  ‘Owww!’ he cried.

  CHAPTER •2•

  ‘OWWW!!!’

  Mrs Chalmers, Cy’s class teacher, shot up out of her seat at the front of the bus. She turned around and held up the paper ball which had just bounced off the top of her head. ‘Who threw this?’ she demanded.

  All down the bus her pupils were sprawled out across the seats, reading comics, chewing sweets, and shouting insults at each other.

  ‘Uh?’ said the two nearest to her.

  Mrs Chalmers grabbed the P.A. microphone. ‘Quieten down, everyone!’ she shouted above the din. ‘Now,’ she continued, when there was a silence, ‘I warned all of you before we left to go to York. If we are going to survive a week-long trip together then there must be no unruly behaviour. So . . .’ she held up the scrunched-up sandwich bag, ‘did anyone see who threw this piece of paper?’

  Cy’s classmates looked at each other. Even if they had seen anything, nobody was going to tell.

  ‘It’s really not good enough.’ Mrs Chalmers began to walk up the aisle of the bus. ‘If this missile had hit the driver, then he could easily have been distracted. You are old enough to know that’s very dangerous.’ She looked around her. ‘The guilty person should own up.’

  Cy glanced across the aisle at Eddie and Chloe. His eyes had snapped open a few seconds earlier, and he knew exactly which one of them had lobbed the scrunched-up piece of paper to the front of the bus. He also knew that there was no way that these two class bullies, known to everyone as the Mean Machines, were going to admit to it.

  ‘Is nobody going to say who did this?’ Mrs Chalmers had reached Cy’s seat.

  Cy’s eyes caught Chloe’s gaze. She stared across at him and narrowed her eyes, daring him to tell on her. Then suddenly Chloe gave Cy a bright wicked smile. She leaned into the passageway.

  ‘Mrs Chalmers,’ she said in a voice so low that only Cy and Mrs Chalmers could hear.

  Mrs Chalmers bent down a little.

  ‘I think . . .’ Chloe hesitated.

  ‘Yes, Chloe?’ Mrs Chalmers prompted quietly.

  Chloe chewed her lip uncomfortably for a second or two and then spoke in a sincere worried voice. ‘I think that Cy might have something to tell you, but . . .’ she pulled at Mrs Chalmers’ coat-sleeve, ‘. . . perhaps later, when there’s nobody else about.’

  Mrs Chalmers straightened up. ‘Thank you, Chloe,’ she said. ‘It’s very brave of you to speak up.’ She turned and looked down at Cy. ‘Cy, I won’t tolerate rough horseplay on the bus.’ Her mouth set in a severe line. ‘I’ll speak to you when we arrive at the hostel in York.’

  Cy gasped. It had happened again! He knew that the Mean Machines were very smart at not getting caught picking on people. But this time they had gone even further! Without actually saying so, Chloe had made it seem that he had chucked the paper ball down to the front of the bus. And now, if he told on them, then he would be a sneak and a grass. What was he going to say to Mrs Chalmers when they arrived at the hostel in York?

  His teacher walked briskly back to her own seat. Cy, his face red, stared out of the bus window, past Innes who had fallen asleep beside him. He had really wanted to go on this school trip, but he was already in trouble before it had even properly begun!

  ‘The Viking, Erik Bloodaxe, who ruled York many years ago, was so called for obvious reasons . . .’ Cy’s teacher had picked up the P.A. microphone again, and was reading from one of the history books she had brought with her.

  Cy kept his back firmly turned away from Chloe and Eddie sitting opposite. ‘Ignore bullies as much as you can,’ his Grampa had advised him. ‘They get a buzz from annoying people, so you’ve got to try and spoil their game by not getting annoyed.’ Cy tried to keep his mind on what Mrs Chalmers was saying.

  ‘In the Middle Ages people lived in constant fear of the Nordic raiders from the sea,’ Mrs Chalmers went on. ‘The Vikings were very skilled in building ships and were great sailors. They came sweeping down the coast of Britain looking for plunder, setting fire to the towns and villages.’

  Yeah, right, Cy smiled to himself. Don’t I know it. He pulled his piece of dreamsilk from where he’d had it tucked up his sleeve. It had been the last thing he’d grabbed from home before he’d set out on the school trip this Monday morning. He didn’t think he could safely leave it, even hidden under his chest of drawers. Not if he was going to be away for a whole week, and especially not if his dad was talking about maybe redecorating Cy’s bedroom while he was gone. Cy looked at it carefully. Because it had been in contact with his skin, it must have triggered the illusion that his dream was real. It was pale and grey, and looked worn out.

  It couldn’t have worked like that, could it? Not such a tiny piece, to make his Viking dream so real. It needed Cy’s own Dream Master with his dreamcloak. Didn’t it?

  Anyway, Cy thought, if he ever did get back there, then he would have to sort that particular story out. He couldn’t have some narky girl butting in, ordering him about, and doing the rescuing bit.

  He stuffed the torn cloth into his trouser pocket. Then he reached out to the seat pocket in front of him to get his comic to read. His hand stopped in mid-air, and his eyes opened wide. His fingers were smeared with soot. Cy held up his other hand. It too was streaked with black marks. Then Cy noticed the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Slowly he brought it closer to his face. There were tiny holes on the sleeve, on both sleeves, and . . . and . . . Cy bent his chin and looked down. All down his front were spattered little irregular burn marks . . . as if a shower of sparks from a fire had landed on him.

  CHAPTER •3•

  IT WASN’T UNTIL later that evening when everybody was settled in the school hostel accommodation that Cy got a chance to take a really good look at his sweatshirt. He examined the surface closely, and then stuck his little finger through one of the larger holes. They were definitely burn marks, but how could that be? Cy looked again at the piece of dreamsilk. It seemed different somehow, deeper, darker . . . almost liquid in the way it flowed through his fingers. He would h
ave to make absolutely sure that he had no direct contact with it when he fell asleep. If even such a small piece of dreamsilk was so powerful, then he would have to keep it right out the way. Cy touched it cautiously. He wasn’t going near it again. Then he grinned to himself. Well, at least until he had a clearer idea of the direction that he wanted his Viking dream to take.

  ‘You’ve to report to Mrs Chalmers.’ Basra appeared beside Cy’s bed. ‘She’s in the office downstairs.’ He gave Cy a sympathetic look. ‘I’ll walk down with you,’ he offered.

  Cy looked up. Eddie was lounging in the dormitory doorway. Cy stuffed the sweatshirt and the dreamsilk to the bottom of his holdall, and then shoved the bag under his bed. ‘Yeah, great. Thanks, Basra.’

  ‘Don’t go green,’ Eddie hissed as Cy passed him.

  ‘What’s he on about?’ asked Basra.

  ‘He’s warning me not to grass them up,’ said Cy. ‘It was the Mean Machines who bounced the paper ball off Mrs Chalmers’s head on the bus.’

  Basra groaned. ‘Might have known,’ he said. ‘They don’t know what to be up to, do they? I hope they’re not going to ruin this trip for the rest of us.’ He punched Cy on the shoulder. They had reached the office. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  Mrs Chalmers was sitting behind the hostel manager’s desk. ‘Cy,’ she said severely, ‘chucking stuff around on a moving bus is not on. We’re going to be using the bus a lot during this week. I have to be sure it won’t happen again.’

  Cy could feel the old familiar panic which always started inside him when he was stressed: the shaky fluttering which centred in his head and stopped him thinking straight. He took a big breath and tried one of Grampa’s ‘Panic Prevention Practices’ – counting backwards very slowly from eleven.

  ‘I didn’t do it, miss,’ he managed to say eventually.

  ‘There has been an indication that you did.’

  Cy shook his head miserably.

  Mrs Chalmers sighed. ‘You wouldn’t then like to tell me who actually did do it?’