‘Time is completely fluid. Think about it. How long does something horrible last? For ever. How long does something good? No time at all. How long does your birthday last? Eh? How long does the day before your birthday last? You’re not going to tell me you actually believe that both those days last the same number of minutes?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Cy. ‘It’s just that because one is more exciting than the other they seem different.’
‘Why?’
‘Because nice things seem to be a shorter length. Bad times seem longer. Good times seem shorter,’ said Cy.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know why!’ said Cy in exasperation.
‘Gotcha!’ The Dream Master crowed with pleasure. ‘Answer this one then. How do you measure the time spent with your Grampa?’
Cy couldn’t answer. ‘I don’t,’ he said eventually.
‘There you are then!’ said the dwarf triumphantly.
‘For goodness sakes!’ shouted Cy.
His Dream Master was becoming as bad as grown-ups for yabbering on. Worse even than his older sister Lauren and her two friends, who could go on longer than any international peace talks.
‘Tell me how to end this Story,’ said Cy impatiently. ‘We have to stop it before something serious happens.’
‘Something serious is already happening,’ said the Dream Master. ‘This story is moving out of its own time and space. It is beginning to overlap, cause disturbances elsewhere which could alter the timeline . . .’ The dwarf’s voice tailed off, and Cy heard again a faint note of fear. ‘You have to finish it off,’ said the dwarf after a moment, ‘ . . . before it finishes you off.’
‘What do you mean, “before it finishes me off”?’ said Cy.
‘I told you,’ said the dwarf. ‘Because . . . by now it’s a nightmare. And although with ordinary nightmares you always wake up . . . eventually, with this one you might not. If you go back into the dream, rather than the dream being in your head, then there’s no guarantee that you can come out again.’
‘If I go back,’ Cy said slowly, ‘how do I end the Story?’
There was silence. Then Cy heard the sound of static through the headphones. ‘I don’t know exactly.’ The Dream Master’s voice came from far away. ‘You’re going to have to work out how to do it by yourself. But you must go back into the dream properly the way you began, through the piece of dreamsilk. Take the piece of dreamsilk, and try to reconnect with the Viking dream at the place you left it. Then—’
The crackling increased. It buzzed in Cy’s ears and drowned out the Dream Master’s words. Cy took off the headset and shook it. He stopped as he noticed one of the staff giving him a strange look.
‘Having trouble, son?’ The attendant came over and twiddled the knob. He took the headset and put it to his own ear. ‘There you go.’ He handed it back to Cy. ‘It’s working fine now.’
Cy put it to his ear. He could hear a recorded tape of historical facts. ‘I’m finished, thanks,’ he said. He replaced the earphones on their stand and turned away.
CHAPTER •9•
MR GILLESPIE WAS waving the tickets and calling on everybody to follow him to the entrance to the Time Ride. Cy trailed along at the end of the line of his classmates, his mind churning over and over.
He knew that his unfinished Viking dream was seeping through into this reality. He didn’t need the Dream Master to tell him that strange things were happening, and . . . Cy glanced uneasily over his shoulder . . . they seemed to be happening in his vicinity. It was almost as if the dream was following him, seeking him out, trying to reattach itself to him in some way.
‘Now you will travel back in time . . .’
Cy started. Who had said that? Ahead of him stood a figure in Viking dress.
‘Pay attention, everyone,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘The Centre guide wants to say a few words.’
‘You will be taken back to when the city of York was known as Jorvik. Underneath the streets of our modern city, archaeologists discovered houses, workshops, and other remains of the town as it was in those Viking times.’ The guide dressed as a Viking began to usher them on two by two. ‘Sights, sounds, and even smells have all been recreated to give an authentic vision of York in the Viking age.’
Suddenly Mrs Chalmers tutted. ‘We seem to have lost Eddie and Chloe. I’m going back to look in the shop. Cy, can you go in that last car by yourself, please?’
As Cy got in his time-car, the attendant reached up and tapped the TV security screen which showed the view down the tunnel. ‘On the blink today,’ she said. ‘It must be these thunderstorms we’ve been having. It keeps blipping on and off.’
Cy’s time-car moved off, then turned and reversed so that he was travelling backwards, back through time. The centuries slipped away quickly until the timber houses, the little shops, and the wattle and daub huts appeared. Cy leaned forward to get a better view as a reconstructed Viking town appeared.
The streets were lined with craft workshops of different kinds: leatherwork, shoe-making, and jewellery. Here was a shopkeeper haggling with a customer, there was a man trading goods, several rings adorning his fingers and a whorled pendant hanging around his neck. Joints of meat were hanging up outside the houses, and pigs burrowed their snouts in the food scraps flung into their pen at the back of the houses.
A swineherd, thought Cy. That’s what I was, a swineherd . . .
From the cesspits and rubbish dumps the strong stink wafted into Cy’s nostrils. Outside a fisherman’s hut a boy and two men gutted fish, talking and laughing as they worked. They were telling stories. Cy caught drifts of their conversation as his time-car travelled on.
Now there was a family scene, with a woman tending her child as she sat by the open hearth in the middle of the hut floor. The coals glowed and the fire flickered, as she stirred a pot.
Cy’s car moved on. The historical part was almost finished. Up ahead he could see the excavations display. The car began to turn the corner on the track.
And then it stopped with a jerk. It must have broken down, Cy thought, an electricity failure. He waited. There would probably be an announcement or someone would come to show him the way out. He peered into the gloom. The car ahead had moved on and was now out of sight. And the car behind . . . Cy twisted around . . . He couldn’t see any car following his, and all the lights had gone out.
Perhaps he should get out and walk to the exit sign. He half got to his feet. Just as he did so, the car shuddered and moved forwards. Cy clung to the guard rail as it jerked back along the track.
In the town the thatches were burning, the livestock had scattered, and thick smoke plumed up into the sky. People were running and screaming, but they were trapped in the narrow lanes and alleyways with no way to escape.
Cy turned his head to see better. These special effects were magnificent. How were they doing it? It must be a large screen of some kind. He reached out, but there was nothing there to grasp.
And at that moment there came to him a sense of danger. Suddenly Cy knew that what he was seeing was real. Or had been real, and perhaps still was. Somewhere in time and space, this had happened . . . was . . . is happening.
He could only watch then as the raiders rampaged through the city. Right beside him a man was felled to the ground. Cy heard him moan as his jewelled pendant was ripped from around his throat. Further along the street a young child was caught and captured, tossed over the Viking’s shoulder to be taken as a slave. Cy could do nothing, yet still hear and see everything that was happening. He was in it, yet not part of it. The fired thatches gave off dense clouds of grey smoke, screams echoed in his ears. The smell of fear was in his nostrils. He could sense the panic of the stricken town, taste the terror of the animals trapped in the burning building. In the distance two figures were fleeing: one smaller, younger . . . a girl, supporting an old man, both of them trying desperately to outrun their pursuers. And, just as Cy realized who they were, he saw the old man stumble and fa
ll . . .
‘Hilde!’ Cy reached out, but his hand and arm passed through the scene before him as if it had no substance. This was just like a nightmare – it was a nightmare.
Cy slumped back in his seat. There was a bump and his car ground to a halt. A member of staff helped him out. She waved her hand in front of Cy’s face and grinned at him.
‘I can see you really enjoyed that,’ she said. ‘Your eyes are glazed over.’
Cy walked in a daze past the displays through to the shop area. He had to go back. He knew that now. After scenes like that there was no way that he could abandon this story. Later tonight, after the theatre workshop, would be a good time to unwrap the piece of dreamsilk and try. What he didn’t know was whether he had to do it on his own, or whether his Dream Master would be there to help him sort out this Story.
CHAPTER •10•
‘A STORY,’ SAID Matt, ‘a good story, has certain elements to it. And through stories we can learn about life.’
It was after dinner that evening, and members of the theatre group were working on the Viking saga with Cy and his classmates. Matt was sitting on the stage discussing with them how they could use their ideas and construct a story.
‘The way a story is structured can teach you about logic, science, and philosophy. I’ll try to explain what I mean,’ he said. ‘For example if this was a story about a cloudy day . . . which soon turns to rain. The character in your story might put up an umbrella, put on a pair of welly boots, and then go out and stamp in some puddles. That one is very simple and used in a lot of picture books. It shows how things happen . . . rain is wet and makes puddles.’
While Matt was speaking Mrs Chalmers had quickly drawn cartoons of rain clouds, puddles, an umbrella, and wellingtons in a line along the top of the board.
‘Another thing to watch out for,’ said Matt, ‘is proper sequencing of events.’ He pointed to the top of the blackboard. ‘First we have the rain, then the brolly and the wellies, then the puddle-jumping – not the other way round.’ He grinned at them. ‘Don’t laugh. I know it sounds babyish and simple, but getting events in the correct order is a basic requirement. A lot of people forget this when they write or tell stories. The story should move forward, and it should fit together as it moves . . . Any questions so far?’
Cy put his hand up. ‘Do you mean that a story can’t just be allowed to happen?’
Matt thought for a moment. ‘I think that if it was “just allowed to happen” then it might never get finished,’ he said. ‘When I’m writing a story I know that I need some kind of plan, otherwise I usually get stuck.’ He pointed to the bottom part of the blackboard where he had written out notes from the previous night’s workshop. ‘It’s always helpful to write things out. These are all your ideas. Now we’ll try to find a storyline from them.’ He picked up the chalk and began to talk through the notes.
As Matt wrote on the board Cy was thinking hard. This was the same thing that the Dream Master had been nagging him about. His Viking dream needed to move forward. At the moment it seemed to be stuck. Every time Cy caught a glimpse of it he saw the same events – the burning buildings, the fire – as though it was caught in a never-ending loop.
‘Of course we must not lose spontaneity, flair, innovation,’ Matt’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘A story can create itself as it goes along, and this happens when the most important factor comes into use . . .’ He looked around the room. ‘Any guesses as to what it might be?’
‘Imagination,’ said Cy. ‘Imagination is everything.’
Mrs Chalmers beamed at him. ‘Well said, Cy.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t me that said it,’ said Cy. ‘It was Einstein, actually.’
‘And always they must entertain . . . thrill, excite, even scare those who hear them,’ Matt went on. ‘However, if we do find it too terrifying we can always bear in mind that it’s not real.’
‘Maybe not for you,’ Cy said under his breath. The storyline for the Viking saga which Matt was drawing and scripting on the blackboard right now was fiction. But in a different TimeSpace . . . Hilde and her grandfather were in desperate danger. Cy looked down at his notepad but he didn’t see the words he had written there today. He was remembering the old man falling to the ground as he hurried to escape.
‘Cy!’
Cy jumped. Mrs Chalmers had called his name.
‘Do you have anything to read to us from your notebook tonight?’
Cy flipped open his pad. He had jotted down a lot of stuff throughout the day, and what’s more he had made absolutely sure that he had kept his notepad safely in his rucksack at all times.
‘I thought there could be a battle,’ he said. ‘Maybe the one at Stainmore when King Eadred fights . . . sorry, fought Erik Bloodaxe. And Harald, the Viking’s eldest son, could be trying to marry a Saxon princess so that he would have a right to the English throne. Perhaps the story could feature a Viking raid with the townspeople trying to fight them off. Plenty of action, anyway—’ Cy’s voice grew more and more excited and enthusiastic as he told his story, adding bits as they came into his head.
Matt was scribbling furiously as Cy spoke. ‘That would fit in with Chloe’s princess who was being pursued by Vikings. We should have more characters, people who will bring the story to life. I’ll assign parts to each of you based on the readings you gave last night. You can learn your parts tonight and we’ll have a rehearsal late tomorrow afternoon.’
‘It’s beginning to take shape,’ said Mrs Chalmers. She spoke to Matt in a low voice. ‘I told you Cy had a talent for this type of thing.’
Matt nodded. ‘Yes, this is going to work very well. The primary school children will love it. And if we’re going to have a battle scene, I think I know where I can get more props to help us out. In York every year we stage events for the Viking festival of Jolablot, when the Vikings celebrated the end of winter and the arrival of spring. I’ve helped stage mock fights for this, so I’ll be able to borrow weapons, costumes and get volunteer “extras” for our battle scenes. If the weather holds we’ll put it on outside tomorrow night.’ He turned to speak to Cy. ‘Cy, I’d like you to be the narrator of the Saga.’
‘Me?’ Cy could hardly believe it. ‘Me?’
Matt smiled. ‘Yes, you. You’d introduce the characters and tell the tale. I think you’ve got a real empathy with storytelling.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Cy hesitated. ‘I’m not good at reading out in front of people.’
‘But that’s the point,’ said Matt. ‘You don’t. The storytellers didn’t read the stories. They told them aloud. And they had a gift for doing it. They had to be inventive and imaginative, as you are. The Nordic ones were known by a special name. A Viking storyteller was called—’
‘A skald,’ Cy interrupted without thinking. He gave Matt a strange look, and then said, ‘Yes . . . I will be the skald.’
CHAPTER •11•
‘WELL, LOOK WHO’S here! If it isn’t teacher’s little Cy-bear-boy!’
Cy’s stomach flipped and went wobbly as he heard Chloe’s voice raised high above the clatter in the school hostel tuck shop. He had just turned away from the counter after being served and found himself face to face with Chloe.
She leaned forward and flicked his paper bag of sweets. ‘Buying batteries to keep you sucking up, Cy-bear-pet?’
‘Excuse me,’ he said in his best assertive tone of voice, ‘I don’t want to speak to you.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ Eddie spoke from directly behind Cy. ‘You’re far too clever to talk to the likes of us.’
Cy swivelled around. Eddie and a couple of his cronies had surrounded him at the back. Cy felt the fluttery panic beginning to spread inside him.
‘After all, you say the same things as Einstein, don’t you?’ Eddie began to mimic Cy’s earlier conversation with Mrs Chalmers. “Imagination is everything, Mrs Chalmers.” “Well said, little Cy!” “Oh, I didn’t say it. It was Einstein, actually.” Eddie laughed sarcast
ically, and spoke to Chloe across Cy’s head. ‘We should call him “Einstein Actually”.’
Chloe shrieked with laughter. ‘That’s brilliant, Eddie.’ She raised her voice. ‘Hey, listen to this, everybody. From now on Cy’s new name is “Einstein Actually”. That should give us a few laughs,’ she went on, ‘seeing as how he’s a complete duffer at most things.’
Cy’s heart contracted and then began to race. He felt his face go red. He shouldn’t stand and take this. All he had to do was take a deep breath and speak up. But it was so difficult for him to do that. Was that why they picked on him, singled him out from time to time for their special treatment?
When he had asked Grampa about this, Grampa had talked to him quite seriously. ‘There’s always bullies. In the last War they called them Nazis, and we tried to get rid of them, but they’re still around. It’s part of what’s known as the “human condition” but, God knows, there’s nothing human about it. There are some folk who pick on those who are different, although often they don’t even need a reason. It makes them feel good. These people usually don’t have much to say about other things. They can’t talk about sport, or films, or books or ideas. It’s as if there’s nothing much inside them but hate, and it all comes spilling out now and then.’
Cy didn’t trust himself to speak, so he tried to push past the Mean Machines. They stood firm and started to jostle him.
‘Leave it out,’ said a firm voice.
Cy turned. Vicky and Basra were now standing beside him. It was Vicky who had spoken up.
‘You lot are pathetic,’ she said. ‘You’re so jealous ’cos Cy’s better at the Viking saga than you are.’
‘You’re as bad as he is,’ Chloe snapped back at Vicky. ‘Miss suck-up Sally. “Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir.”’
‘Sticky-Licky-Vicky,’ added Eddie nastily.
‘You two are so . . . so . . . juvenile,’ said Vicky loftily. She lifted her head high and turned away. But Cy could see that her face was blotchy pink and she had her jaw clenched.
Dream Master Nightmare! Page 4