Cy shook his head again. His brain had blipped out of action. Now he couldn’t speak at all, even if he wanted to. He hated it when this happened. His clumsiness seemed to seep right through him and take over his whole body.
Mrs Chalmers looked up at the ceiling and then she looked back at Cy. She knew that he often got himself into difficult situations, but he always owned up when he’d done something wrong. Whereas Chloe, now that she thought about it, could be a mischief-maker. What to do? she asked herself. What to do?
Cy stared at his teacher. It was awful being so awkward, so cack-handed, so gauche . . . Suddenly Cy had a blinding flash of inspiration. ‘Mrs Chalmers,’ he said seriously, ‘you know that it couldn’t possibly have been me who threw the paper ball at you.’
Mrs Chalmers raised her eyebrows.
Cy gave her a weak smile. ‘If I had thrown it,’ he said, ‘it would have missed.’
There was a silence. Then Mrs Chalmers laughed out loud. ‘Yes, Cy,’ she said. ‘I take your point. Your co-ordination is not always one hundred per cent.’ She stood up. ‘Enough of this,’ she said briskly. ‘Whatever else you do or do not excel at, Cyrus Peters, you have never been a liar. If you say that you did not do it, then I believe you. Tonight, at dinner, I will tell everyone that it must never happen again. And we will forget all about the incident. This time . . .’ she called after Cy as he went out the door. ‘Which makes me realize,’ she added quietly to herself when Cy had left, ‘exactly what Miss Chloe was playing at when she spoke to me.’
After dinner was cleared away, Mrs Chalmers and the other teachers gave out the programme for the week. There were to be excursions every day to places like the Railway Museum, the Jorvik Centre, the Minster and the Castle Museum. Tomorrow they would have an introductory historical tour and walk the City walls.
‘And then, because you will all have absorbed so much culture and knowledge during the day, you will be able to write about it in the evening.’
At once, everybody began to moan.
‘That sounds like schoolwork to me,’ said Vicky, who was sitting on the window-ledge beside Cy and the rest of their friends.
‘Too right,’ said Cy.
‘It will be fun,’ said Mrs Chalmers.
There were some whistles and catcalls. Cy noticed that the other teachers, Mr Gillespie and Ms Tyler, were joining in.
Mrs Chalmers held up her hand for silence. ‘No, really, I mean it. I have arranged for a local theatre group to come along and do workshops with us. We will provide the story and Matt, their director, will help us produce a play together. It will be performed on Thursday evening, the last night before we leave. Pupils from the local primary school have been invited to come along and watch.’
‘Are we charging them for tickets?’ asked Basra.
‘More likely they’ll charge us,’ said Cy.
‘Can we have auditions?’ Vicky called out.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Mrs Chalmers. ‘The auditions will be tomorrow. First, we need a starting point.’ She looked around the hall. ‘Any suggestions as to what we might write about?’
‘Duh,’ said Vicky. She crossed her eyes at Cy. ‘Duh . . .’ she said again. ‘As we are in York, I suggest . . . a play about the . . . er . . . Vikings?’
‘Oh, well done, Vicky!’ said Mrs Chalmers. ‘That’s exactly what I was going to say, and it just so happens that we’ve brought lots of materials on the Vikings with us. Excellent, that’s settled then,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You can all have twenty minutes to write and then get off to bed as we’ve been travelling most of the day. Tomorrow I want some interesting ideas for a story.’
Cy tried to have another good think before he switched off the lamp by his bed. His notebook was beside him, and already it was covered in scribbles. He liked to write his story ideas down quickly, just as they came into his head. If he tried to make up proper sentences he found that the ideas stopped coming. And anyway, he wasn’t good at long bursts of actual writing. When he had to write things down in class, his words always struggled to stay on the line . . . and failed. They usually gave up eventually and fell right off. It showed up how bad his co-ordination was. Adults usually tutted or heaved a sigh when they looked at his exercise book.
Cy found that his mind kept going back to the Viking dream which he’d had on the bus. Well, he decided, if he was going to write that story there were a few things that would need changing. For a start off, if anyone was going to do any rescuing or brave deeds, it was going to be him, Cy, and not some cranky girl who said she was a princess. She – what was her name again? – Hilde, yes, well she could be a swineherd, or herdess, or Little Bo Peep even. Cy fell asleep smiling, thinking of Hilde trying to round up several dozen crazy sheep, two of whom looked very like Eddie and Chloe.
CHAPTER •4•
‘THE WALLS SURROUNDING the city of York are the best place to start any exploration of the city.’
It was the following morning and Cy was with the rest of the class at the foot of some steps at the start of their historic walk around the city.
‘We will begin here,’ continued their guide, ‘and I’ll stop from time to time to point out anything interesting as we walk the walls.’
An early morning mist still hung in the air and the creamy stone of the Minster glowed in the faint sunlight. As they went along the guide talked about how the Romans had established the city of Eburacum between the rivers Ouse and Foss.
‘Over the years it became a busy place for trading: furs, walrus, ivory and other goods. It had many buildings of wattle and timber, and was known to the Vikings as Jorvik.’
Cy could just make out the broad river, with people strolling on the pathways alongside.
‘It’s hard to imagine,’ said the guide, ‘that this area would have been very busy with traders and of course the famous Viking longships.’
No, thought Cy, it isn’t hard to imagine them at all. He squinted out across the water, screwing up his eyes against the thousand shimmering droplets in the air and their reflections on the waves. The mist rising made it difficult to make out anything other than dull shapes in the distance.
‘We will move on,’ said the guide, and Cy’s class began to follow her along the parapet.
Suddenly the sun broke through the haze and Cy stopped with a gasp. The dazzling light gleamed on the river and off the prows of a dozen or so longships. Their dragon figureheads arched proudly as they slid through the water. Cy gripped the edge of the stone wall.
‘Come on, Cy,’ called Mrs Chalmers. ‘Keep up please.’
Cy turned. His school party was crocodiling along further ahead of him. Their guide was at the end of the line waiting for him.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, as Cy rushed up.
‘In the river!’ cried Cy. He pointed across the ramparts. ‘I saw Viking longships in the river!’
‘Oh yes,’ said the guide. ‘They put on pageants at different times of the year. They’re probably practising today.’ She leaned out to have a look. Then she turned and grinned at Cy. ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘You really got me with that one.’
Cy went to the wall and looked out again. There was nothing on the river except a tourist barge. He could hear the tannoyed voice of its guide faintly in the distance. Cy’s heart jumped. What had he seen? Or what had he thought he’d seen?
‘Come along, Cy,’ Mrs Chalmers called impatiently.
Cy glanced back and then hurried to catch up. His head was still swimmy when they reached the Castle Museum.
‘It’s so oppressive today,’ said the guide as she led them inside. ‘We need some heavy rain to clear the atmosphere.’
It wasn’t much better inside the museum. The air seemed treacly and the light hazy. To Cy everything seemed indistinct, as though the objects hadn’t been drawn in clearly enough. Hardly listening he followed the person in front of him on the tour.
‘This is the Viking helmet discovered a few years ago in one of the main streets of York, k
nown as the foregate.’ Their guide had paused in front of an exhibit. ‘It is made of iron and brass, and if you look carefully you can see a name inscribed on it. No-one knows how or why it was buried there. You can see a hologram of it at the Jorvik Centre.’
Cy moved closer. There was the inscription . . . some strange lettering . . . He leaned in to get a better look. His eyes watered and his head spun. There was something odd happening . . . drifting mist in front of his eyes . . . and in it he could see . . . the domed crown, the nose-guard, the intricate design . . .
And then Cy felt the air closing in around him. A dizzy feeling and . . . a sudden sense of danger. His throat tightened and his brain faltered. What? Under the visor a head was taking shape. The face was lined and hard, chin set with purpose. It was that of a Viking warrior. And from within the eye sockets the eyes, mad with rage, stared out at him.
‘Cy!’ Mrs Chalmers called sharply. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. No. I think so.’ Cy put his hand across his eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
Mrs Chalmers took his arm and led him to a chair. ‘Sit down, and I’ll fetch a glass of water. It’s probably just the heat,’ she said. She wafted her hand in front of her face. ‘It is very hot in here.’
The lights in the museum flickered.
‘Electrical storm,’ said the guide. ‘The air is so heavy today. When the weather builds up like this it can cause power surges. Nothing to worry about.’
The very next second the museum fire alarm went off.
‘Blast!’ said the guide. ‘It’s probably a short circuit, but we must go out. Now!’ She began to usher the class towards the door.
Cy got up as Mrs Chalmers hurried back to the group.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘You all know how to follow a fire drill. Be sensible. Nearest fire exit as fast as you can, and we will assemble outside.’
The air seemed thicker and heavier with each step Cy took. He pushed open a door marked ‘Fire Exit’, stumbled down some stairs and out into . . . thick smoke pouring from the burning thatch of the house across the way.
So it hadn’t been a false alarm, Cy thought. The museum really was on fire. He staggered down the street and turned to look back at the building. His mouth dropped open. The museum wasn’t there. In its place were stables. Cy looked around wildly. Everywhere was flame and fire. He could hear the noise of the terrified animals trapped in the burning building. Then he heard running feet, and people screaming.
Cy saw an alleyway and scurried into it. Halfway down he stopped to catch his breath. He didn’t know how it had happened, but he knew without doubt that he was back in his Viking dream!
Cy looked around him desperately. What should he do? Where could he go?
Suddenly he heard a familiar voice.
‘Thundering Thor!’ it shouted. ‘What in the Name of Nineteen Norsemen do you think you are doing?’
CHAPTER •5•
‘DREAM MASTER!’ CRIED Cy.
A little man with a wizened face and a beard was standing in the alleyway. He had his arms folded across his chest and a furious expression on his face.
‘Explain this!’ he demanded.
‘Er . . . what?’ said Cy.
‘I am your Dream Master. You cannot have a dream without me being there. Dreams need Dream Masters. How is it that you are in a dream that I know nothing about? You cannot move in and out of the Dreamworld without my help.’
‘You mean this Viking dream? It was all a mistake,’ babbled Cy. ‘The last time we met, when I grabbed your dreamcloak, a piece tore off and I still have it. I didn’t mean to use it – honestly. I was going off on the school trip to York, and I tucked the bit of your dreamcloak up my sleeve. It was to keep it safe, in case my mum or dad found it when I was away. Then I fell asleep on the bus, and the next thing I knew I was being chased by Vikings, and then I ran into a house and they set it on fire.’
‘And?’ prompted the Dream Master.
‘Then I woke up, and when I realized that I had sort of Dream Mastered my own dream by mistake, I put the piece of dreamsilk away. At once,’ Cy added.
A couple of terrified pigs came squealing and grunting down the alley. The Dream Master grabbed Cy and hauled him out of the way.
‘So how did you get back into Viking times just now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cy. ‘We were being shown round the museum. Everything was strange, the light was blurred and the air was syrupy. I couldn’t breathe. The fire alarm went off. I don’t know why . . .’
‘In case you haven’t noticed,’ the Dream Master pointed to the roofs of the houses opposite, ‘the whole town is burning.’
‘Yes,’ said Cy. ‘Here it is, because the Vikings set it on fire. But it wasn’t, not where I was originally. They said that the fire alarm had gone off due to an electrical fault.’
‘So how exactly did you arrive into this TimeSpace?’ asked the Dream Master.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cy. ‘It just happened.’
The Dream Master frowned. ‘Dreams don’t just happen,’ he said testily. ‘And not like this either.’ He waved his hand about. ‘This one is drifting about all over York. I was fishing quietly down by the river when suddenly half a dozen Viking longships appeared out of nowhere.’
‘I saw them too!’ cried Cy. ‘So I didn’t imagine them!’
The Dream Master gave Cy a strange look. ‘You probably did, actually.’ He waved his hand in the air, as Cy opened his mouth. ‘We’ll go into that later,’ he said hurriedly. Then he looked at Cy and spoke seriously. ‘This dream is wafting about any old where, through Time and Space. And what’s worrying is that it looks as though it’s beginning to seep through to the twenty-first century.’ He shook his head. ‘We can’t have this. Dreams should be contained inside the dreamer’s head. This one appears to be leaking. It’s very dangerous. Also,’ the Dream Master squinted through the haze, ‘there’s something not quite right about all of it.’
Cy looked around him. He knew what the Dream Master meant. The sounds of the fire and the flames burning were odd and unreal.
The Dream Master turned abruptly to Cy. ‘Who is dreamweaving?’
‘Eh?’ said Cy.
‘Where is this dream’s Dream Master?’ said the dwarf. ‘It can’t be you. You don’t have the piece of my cloak in your hand. It’s not me. My own dreamcloak is still.’ He moved his wrist like a matador with a cape. ‘Look.’
Cy could see that the Dream Master’s dreamcloak was almost translucent.
‘There are no dreams moving in there just now.’ The dwarf frowned. ‘It’s as if . . . as if . . .’ The Dream Master stared at Cy, and Cy saw fear on his face. ‘It’s as if no-one is in control. As if this dream is going along by itself. How can that be?’
Cy dropped his eyes.
The Dream Master stepped forward and thrust his face close to Cy’s own. ‘I want you to tell me exactly what happened when you fell asleep, dreaming, on the bus, with a piece of my dreamcloak.’
Cy gulped. ‘I knew as soon as I was in the dream, that it wasn’t an ordinary dream. The dream wasn’t inside my head as dreams normally are. It was me that was actually inside the dream. And we were going to York, and Mrs Chalmers had been telling us about the Vikings, so . . .’
The dwarf nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Well,’ said Cy, ‘I thought a Viking adventure would be great, and . . . and . . . I’d have a shot at being a Dream Master.’
The dwarf struck his own forehead with his fist. ‘You don’t “have a shot at” being a Dream Master. It takes Ages of training and experience. And when I say “Ages” that’s exactly what I mean. Like “the Stone Age” or “the Middle Ages”. Well, go on.’ He glared at Cy.
‘To begin with,’ said Cy, ‘I decided to dream that I would go with the army of King Eadred who were marching to Stainmore to fight Erik Bloodaxe. But that got a bit boring. Do you know that the soldiers only eat twice a day and it is the same food each time? A
nd when you need to go to the toilet you just do it, like . . . anywhere?’
‘Get to the point!’
‘Well, anyway,’ said Cy, ‘it was pretty boring. So I thought it would be more exciting to be with the Vikings for a bit, so I decided I would just change the story—’
‘CHANGE THE STORY!’ bawled the Dream Master. ‘Don’t tell me you tried to make the story go in a way that it shouldn’t?’
‘We-ell . . . I suppose so,’ stammered Cy.
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘I thought it might work,’ said Cy.
The Dream Master flung his hands in the air. ‘Of course it’s not going to work. Not properly anyway. You can’t change a story’s pattern.’
‘Isn’t it like editing?’ suggested Cy.
‘No, it is NOT like editing,’ said the Dream Master fiercely. ‘Editing is when you take out the bits that should never have been there in the first place, and put in the parts that should have.’
‘Doesn’t a Dream Master make up the story as the dream goes along?’ asked Cy. ‘And if you don’t,’ he went on doggedly, ‘then you’re not actually Master of the Dream, are you? You’re more of an observer.’
‘How dare you!’ spluttered the dwarf. ‘Of course I am Master of the Dream. A story needs a narrator or a writer. Everybody makes up stories, even people who think they can’t. You do it. In fact . . .’ he dodged to one side as a burning brand fell off the roof above, narrowly missed him and fell hissing into a barrel of water, ‘you have a very vivid imagination. But a story is a course of events which lead somewhere. It should have a beginning, a middle, and an end – usually, but not always, in that order. And you do NOT go around messing with a story’s fundamentals. They don’t like it. A good story goes its own way. Do they teach you NOTHING at school? I thought they had some kind of literacy hour in the twenty-first century. What’s that all about?’
Cy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Search me.’
‘And what is worse,’ said the Dream Master, ‘you abandoned it right in the middle and let it go wandering off, goodness knows where, doing heaven knows what.’ He slumped against the wall. ‘We’re in trouble,’ he said. ‘Twenty Types of Trouble – Double Mixed.’
Dream Master Nightmare! Page 2