Dream Master Nightmare!

by Theresa Breslin

  Cy didn’t say anything.

  The little man was now chewing his beard and muttering. ‘Of all the idiotic, irresponsible, irrational, ignorant ideas I’ve . . .’ he paused for breath.

  ‘Look,’ Cy interrupted quickly. ‘Is it really so bad?’

  ‘Yes!’ said the Dream Master. ‘Do you know what they call a dream that’s out of control?’

  Cy shook his head.

  ‘Let me be the one to tell you then,’ said the dwarf. ‘What we’ve got here is – a Nightmare!’

  CHAPTER •6•

  ‘I’VE HAD NIGHTMARES before,’ Cy said bravely.

  ‘Oh yes?’ replied the Dream Master. ‘And can you recall how they ended? Huh?’

  Cy thought for a moment. ‘Well . . . usually with something pretty awful,’ he admitted. From somewhere nearby they heard the clash of metal and the noise of fighting. ‘But that’s not going to happen here,’ Cy glanced anxiously at the Dream Master, ‘is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the Dream Master. ‘After all, this dream was started off by you, without any consultation whatsoever with me.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just leave it to sort itself out?’ asked Cy.

  ‘Don’t be so irresponsible,’ said the Dream Master. ‘You can’t have unfinished stories just wandering off. Goodness knows what would happen to them. This one is floating about all over the place, and it’s causing trouble already. See?’ He held up his dreamcloak, and through its folds Cy could dimly see York in the twenty-first century. Buses, vans, cars, and bicycles jostled on the streets. Little clusters of tourists dutifully followed their guides about.

  ‘What?’ asked Cy.

  ‘Look more closely,’ snapped the Dream Master.

  Cy looked again into the rippling depths of the dreamsilk. The city tour bus had paused nearby, and just in front of it was a very large man waving his arms over his head. Cy peered closer. The figure stumbling about in the traffic was dressed in a mail tunic with rough trousers bound with cross-garters. He had dropped his axe and clapped his hands over his ears, his eyes popping with fear and panic. Horns were beeping and motorists shouting. An old lady darted out into the middle of the road. She grabbed the man’s arm and guided him to the safety of the pavement opposite. Then she turned and shook her fist at the nearest car. ‘Road rage!’ she shouted.

  ‘Omigosh!’ said Cy. ‘He’s not an actor dressed up for a part, is he?’

  The dwarf shook his head. ‘He is as real as the Viking ships you saw in the estuary this morning. Your Viking dream is adrift, and you’ll need to do something – fast!’

  ‘This story won’t just sort itself out then.’ Cy’s remark was a statement rather than a question. Through the dreamcloak he could still see the Viking who was now surrounded by a bunch of tourists furiously clicking their cameras. ‘Things are getting a little bit mixed up,’ he admitted.

  ‘A little bit mixed up!’ exploded the dwarf. ‘That is the most understated of understatements ever uttered. I suppose you would have called World War Two a “bit of an argument”. Listen, you . . . you . . . nincompoop, you’d better get it into your noodle-headed noddle just how bad this is. Forget “Mixed Up”. Substitute “Shambles”. Try “Havoc”. Think “Chaos”. There is no end to what could happen to this. Stories are fuelled on the most powerful energy in the universe . . . imagination.’

  Suddenly Cy remembered a conversation he’d had with his Grampa about the future. ‘The most exciting discoveries are still to come,’ Cy’s Grampa had said, and then he’d leaned over and tapped Cy gently on the head. ‘It’s all inside there, contained in the human brain. Remember Einstein’s quote: “Imagination is everything”.’

  ‘Einstein said “Imagination is everything”,’ said Cy.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Dream Master. ‘And being Einstein he meant precisely what he said . . . Imagination is E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.’ The little dwarf pronounced each syllable separately.

  ‘You mean . . . there is no limit on it?’ Cy asked slowly.

  ‘None. Your imagination can produce what is, what is not, and . . .’ the expression on the dwarf’s face again became fearful . . . ‘and what can never be.’

  Cy frowned hard as his brain tried to take this in.

  ‘We have to find a way to solve this problem,’ said the dwarf in a worried voice, ‘otherwise this Story could end up anywhere. And I do mean anywhere. Supposing it bangs into somebody’s unfinished novel about a series of intergalactic wars? Or it encounters an incomplete haiku poem?’ The dwarf had worked himself into a rage and was now biting his beard furiously. ‘Bumbleheaded Boy!’ he shouted.

  ‘Yelling at me won’t help,’ said Cy. ‘It makes me feel worse, actually.’

  ‘Pardon me,’ said the dwarf, ‘if I am making you feel worse. But, if I’m not mistaken, it was you who triggered this off. Remember? So—’

  ‘—it will have to be me who fixes it,’ Cy finished for him. ‘OK. Any ideas as to how I do it?’

  The dwarf twisted round and stared into his dreamcloak for a moment. He turned back, and avoided looking directly at Cy. ‘The matter requires some thought,’ he said carefully.

  ‘You mean, you don’t know what to do?’ asked Cy.

  ‘I am developing a strategy,’ said the dwarf.

  ‘Omigosh,’ said Cy. ‘You really don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Of course I know what to do,’ said the dwarf testily. ‘I’m thinking it through first. You mustn’t rush off and do something silly. But what I have to do first is to nip through TimeSpace, retrieve that Viking warrior, and return him to the part of the dream that he fell through, before someone in twenty-first-century York calls the emergency services. Although,’ he gave Cy a severe look, ‘it appears to be the custom in your century to allow confused people who need help to live on the streets.’ He swung his dreamcloak and disappeared.

  That was a bit unfair, thought Cy. It’s the adults who always make the decisions here. And things hadn’t got any better with almost everybody having self-government either. Perhaps what was really needed was a children’s Parliament. He leaned against the wall. His legs were wobbly, and his head ached. Perhaps he’d breathed in too much smoke, but . . . he drew his hand across his eyes, the smoke seemed to have cleared. The air was fresher. The sun was shining, the mist from this morning had almost cleared. Through the dream-wisps Cy could see Ms Tyler, Mr Gillespie, and Mrs Chalmers walking up and down the street ticking off names. Any minute now they were going to miss him. The way he felt at the moment Cy didn’t much care.

  Mr Gillespie walked right past him and then glanced back. ‘Oh, Cy, there you are. I didn’t see you for a moment.’ He ticked Cy’s name on his list, and then took him firmly by the arm. ‘Right, that’s us all accounted for,’ he told Mrs Chalmers.

  ‘Come along, everybody,’ called Mrs Chalmers. ‘I want to organize lunch now.’

  Cy looked behind him down the long narrow street. He could see his dream rolling away from him. Where was his Dream Master?

  ‘Come on, Cy,’ called Mrs Chalmers, ‘stop dreaming.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ Cy muttered under his breath as he hurried to catch up.

  CHAPTER •7•

  MS TYLER AND Mr Gillespie had organized a game of rounders on the school hostel playing-fields after dinner that evening. Cy had never been very good at games of this kind, and was glad that he had the excuse of not feeling well earlier, which meant that he could sit and watch the others.

  His brain was twanging inside his skull as he tried to work out what to do for the best. He knew that someone had to make sure that the Viking story was ended properly. And that someone was most definitely him. But the Dream Master had told Cy to do nothing until he had decided what was to happen. So he should wait until the little man turned up again. But now Cy was getting edgy, and he didn’t really know why. The air was strange again, it had a sheen which hurt his eyes and stopped him looking directly at anyone or anything.

  ‘What do you mean
you can’t find it?’ Mr Gillespie called out to Innes. ‘That’s the third ball that’s gone astray among those same bushes. Is there a black hole down there that they are all disappearing into?’

  Cy glanced over to where the commotion was. The sun was casting long shadows and he could see Innes and Basra kicking about in the undergrowth, trying to find the lost ball. There was a fine thin mist rising from the river, and twisting slowly through the trees across the fields. Fog from the North Sea, a haar that muffled the noise of the oars and hid the longships so that you did not see them until it was too late: the boats with the carved prows which streaked through the water, shallow-bottomed so that they could beach quickly, high up on the shore line. Then the warriors would leap down with great shouts and terrifying yells . . .

  Cy stood up quickly. Shadows without substance were moving down by the riverbank. One in particular was taller than the rest, a huge warrior; cloaked . . . helmeted . . . As Cy stared, the figure raised his axe high above his head. Faintly, yet distinctly, Cy heard his battle-cry.

  ‘I think we should go in now!’ Cy’s voice came out breathless and ragged.

  ‘Did Mrs Chalmers call?’ Ms Tyler turned and asked Cy.

  Cy crossed his fingers behind his back. ‘I thought I heard someone shout.’ That part was true, at least.

  Ms Tyler looked at her watch. ‘You’re probably right, Cy. Perhaps the theatre group have arrived early.’ She waved to the others. ‘Time to pack up and go in.’

  Fortunately the theatre group had arrived, and had already begun to arrange equipment and props on the stage at the far end of the dining hall. Mrs Chalmers was drawing out a storyboard on a blackboard.

  ‘Everybody get their notepads please,’ she called, ‘and sharpen your pencils and your brains before you sit down.’

  Cy raced upstairs to get his notebook, and saw his holdall jutting out from under his bed. He opened it, grabbed his notepad and pencil and then kicked it firmly right back underneath the bed. He certainly was not going to touch the piece of dreamsilk at the moment. Not until the Dream Master reappeared and told him what to do. As he ran back downstairs Cy almost bumped into Eddie and Chloe giggling together outside the dining-hall door. He walked quickly past them. The Mean Machines were definitely up to something. All that whispering and nudging usually meant that a victim was being picked out for some future nastiness or teasing that always went too far.

  Matt, the director of the theatre group, had organized a running order to hear everyone read out their story ideas. Cy watched and listened, and grew more nervous as the queue shortened and it got nearer to his turn. He desperately wanted a part in the play, but he knew that he was so useless when it came to reading aloud. It didn’t help either that, for some reason, Eddie and Chloe had decided to sit right alongside him. This meant that they would be called after him, and so gave them a good chance to snigger when Cy was speaking. Already they were tittering behind their hands. Cy felt himself grow hot.

  ‘Eddie and Chloe, please keep quiet!’ Mrs Chalmers paused with her piece of chalk in the air. She stopped writing and fixed the Mean Machines with a look. ‘We expect silence when other people are reading. You two can behave better than that.’

  Yeah, right, thought Cy. He stood up. It was his turn. Mrs Chalmers smiled at him and Cy relaxed a little. He always felt better when he knew no-one was going to rush him. He flipped open his notepad, took a deep breath, and then looked down, ready to read out the great ideas he had scribbled down last night. ‘Ah . . . ga . . . ahh,’ he stuttered.

  Matt raised one eyebrow. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Ahh . . . umm . . . nothing,’ said Cy.

  ‘Nothing?’ said Matt. ‘Really?’

  Cy nodded blinking back tears. His notebook was empty. Someone had torn out the pages where he had written down all his wonderful story ideas.

  ‘Surely not, Cy,’ said Mrs Chalmers. ‘You’re usually so good at making up stories.’ She strode across the room and took Cy’s notebook from his fingers. ‘Oh,’ she said, as she saw that the pages were blank. ‘Oh well, never mind.’ She gave Cy a consoling pat on the back. ‘Never mind,’ she said again. ‘If you do think of anything, then let us know.’

  ‘Next!’ called Matt.

  Chloe bounced out of her seat as Cy shuffled away. Her look of triumph as she went by told Cy all he needed to know.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Vicky asked him as he slumped down in a chair near the back of a hall.

  Cy opened his mouth to tell her, and it stayed open as he heard Chloe read out from her notebook in a loud voice.

  ‘I think that there should be a Saxon princess . . . and maybe . . . maybe . . . she could be running away from some Vikings . . .’

  ‘That’s my story!’ gasped Cy. ‘She’s nicked my story!’ He looked at Vicky in horror. ‘I should have realized someone had been in my holdall. I pushed it right under the bed last night and this evening it was sticking out from under the edge. They must have taken the pages out of my notebook and copied them into their own. How could anyone be so rotten?’

  ‘They are horrible and mean, those two,’ agreed Vicky. ‘Couldn’t you remember any bits of it to tell Matt just now?’

  Cy shook his head slowly. He wasn’t good at thinking clearly in a stressful situation. He gazed at the stage with a stunned expression on his face. Matt was talking to Chloe, who was acting all bright and happy.

  ‘I suppose you’ve got your eye on the part of the princess?’ he joked.

  ‘I think I could manage to act as a Saxon princess. Well, I’d do my best,’ Chloe said, in a syrupy pretend-nice voice. She began to mince around the stage waving an imaginary fan.

  Matt laughed. ‘You’ll need some direction, Chloe, I don’t know if Saxon princesses carried fans.’

  At the end of the session Mrs Chalmers came over and sat beside Cy and Vicky. ‘Cheer up, Cy,’ she said. ‘You can’t be the best at stories every time. We’re going to see the big Viking exhibition in the Jorvik Centre tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll see something there that will give you some story ideas.’

  CHAPTER •8•

  ‘PAY ATTENTION, EVERYBODY,’ Mrs Chalmers called out.

  It was the next day, and Cy and his classmates were waiting in line outside the Jorvik Centre for Mr Gillespie who had gone to buy the entrance tickets.

  ‘There’s a huge queue for the Time car-ride,’ said Mrs Chalmers, ‘but we can go in and look at the exhibits just now, and they’ll let us know when it’s our turn to go on. We will visit the shop afterwards,’ she added firmly, as she led them downstairs.

  Cy wandered around with his friends looking at the ancient pieces of pottery and housewares. There was a mock-up of an archaeological research lab, and some display boards with audio tracks. Cy picked up the earphones beside one showing the Historical Timeline and stuck them on his head.

  ‘Well, you certainly took your Time in getting here,’ said an irritated voice in his ear.

  ‘Dream Master?’ said Cy. He pulled the headset half off and looked around. There was no-one beside him.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Cy.

  ‘In the headset, obviously.’

  Cy hesitated. He put the earphones back over his ears. ‘I can’t see you,’ he said.

  ‘Do you usually “see” voices?’

  ‘You can’t be just “a voice”,’ protested Cy.

  ‘Why not?’ said the Dream Master’s voice in Cy’s ear. ‘Why is it that nowadays humans have to categorize everything? You’ve become too analytical. There’s no respect any more. That’s what’s missing. A bit of respect for the unknown. In the old days people feared.’

  ‘Feared what?’ asked Cy.

  ‘Well, practically everything,’ said the Dream Master. ‘Life was simpler. People believed in the Legends. They knew where they were with Myth and Mythology. Now with this modern generation, it’s scientific evidence and second laws of thermodynamics. Your basic dream just won’t do. They’re wanting phasers and quasars, pulsars
and sonic saypatience.’

  Cy thought for a minute. ‘You mean Playstations,’ he said.

  ‘I know what I mean,’ snapped the Dream Master. ‘In Olden Days they just believed. It meant that I could do anything, go anywhere. I could turn up in broad daylight, throw a thunderbolt, and everybody did as they were told. If you did that now you’d get arrested. All my dreams are full of stroppy kids questioning everything.’

  ‘It’s probably because of science,’ said Cy helpfully.

  ‘Science. Shmience. Only last week I had an eight-year-old – an eight-year-old! – telling me what I could and could not do. “This is not logical,” he said. “Who needs logic?” I said. “I’ll terminate your programme,” he said. He threatened me. Me! One of the most powerful Dream Masters ever. It was me who kept the Sleeping Beauty going for all those years.’

  ‘I thought the Sleeping Beauty was a fairy-tale,’ said Cy.

  ‘See what I mean?’ said the Dream Master bitterly. ‘Now I’ve got a bolshy boy who thinks that one of my masterpieces is a fairy-tale. A disobedient dunderhead who is told to wait in one place. And does he do this? No! When I return, he’s done a runner.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault,’ said Cy. ‘The Viking dream kind of drifted away, and left me back in the twenty-first century.’

  ‘Well, it’s fortunate, by my brilliant powers of deduction, I worked out that your teachers would bring you here . . . eventually.’

  Cy glanced around. ‘How long have you been waiting?’ he asked.

  ‘How long?’ said the Dream Master. ‘Long? About three furlongs give or take a kilogram.’

  ‘I meant how long in time,’ said Cy.

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ the Dream Master laughed. ‘You don’t measure Time like that.’

  ‘How do you measure time?’ asked Cy.

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’