Dream Master Nightmare!

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘“Sticks and Stones”,’ said Basra bravely. And he and Cy hurried through the tuck shop door after Vicky.

  Except that it wasn’t always true, thought Cy. Not all of it anyway. Sticks and stones could break your bones. That bit was true. It was the end of the rhyme that he didn’t agree with. ‘Names will never hurt me.’

  Because they did. Words were like raw energy: charged with power, able to shock or soothe; harm, hurt, or comfort. Their effect lasted longer than a blow. In cruel hands, a dangerous weapon.

  ‘They need sorting, those two,’ said Vicky as they walked along the corridor.

  Cy and Basra nodded agreement. They all looked at each other.

  ‘It’s like that story we got in Primary Year 5,’ said Cy. ‘Who’s going to volunteer to put the bell around the cat’s neck?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Basra. ‘Which one of you two is going to sort them out?’

  ‘You mean, which one of you two?’ said Vicky.

  The three friends started to laugh together.

  It was much later that night before Cy felt it was safe enough to creep quietly downstairs to find a place where he could use his piece of dreamsilk to go back into his Viking dream. Everyone, including himself, had spent most of the evening muttering away at their lines and acting out their parts, and now they were asleep. But not Cy; the horrifying scenes in the Jorvik Centre this afternoon had let him know that something had to be done. He just was not sure what exactly.

  Carrying his sweatshirt with the piece of dreamsilk still wrapped inside, Cy slid into the empty dining room. Just beside the door the Viking costumes and props were heaped in wicker hampers. Perhaps looking through this stuff would help him get back to his Viking dream. Cy went over and lifted the lid of the first hamper. It contained armour and weapons. He put down his sweatshirt and examined one or two of the items. A large polystyrene sword with an intricate handle design, some long pointed spears, a round shield, a battle-axe, a cardboard helmet . . .

  Cy picked the helmet up and turned it carefully in his hands and, as he did so, his eyes caught sight of the blackboard on the stage. Cy gasped and stepped back a pace. Writing had been added since the theatre workshop session. Scrawled across Matt’s storyline notes were the words . . . DESTRUCTION! . . . FIRE! . . . DEATH!

  Cy’s fingers lost their grip on the helmet and it fell from his hands back down into the hamper. The hollow eyeslits gazed at him, the depth of their nothingness drawing him in, making his head swim. As if in a trance Cy reached out to his sweatshirt which held the little fragment of dreamsilk wrapped inside. He placed it on the hamper in front of him.

  Slowly Cy began to unwrap it.

  CHAPTER •12•

  AS SOON AS his fingers made contact with the tiny fragment of torn dreamsilk, Cy knew something was terribly wrong. For a start it was not hanging limp like any ordinary piece of material would. It was moving. Fluttering in agitation, twisting and turning, thrumming with a strange vibration. And, as he attempted to take a firm grasp of it, a blistering white heat scorched along his fingers. Cy yelped with pain, and tried to snatch his hand away.

  But he couldn’t. There was a short scuffle as Cy tried to resist, and then he was dragged in.

  And now Time was accelerating away from him, then spinning. Next it was lapping around him. It was movement which did not stop, with no beginning and no end. Changing and turning, sucking him in. And then Cy crashlanded in a rubbish-strewn alleyway in tenth-century York.

  ‘About Time too, you Fat-Headed Fumble-Bumble!’ Cy’s Dream Master stood over him, arms akimbo.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Cy.

  The Dream Master’s eyes opened wide in shock. ‘Why are you asking me where we are? This is your Dream, your Story. You should know the answer to that question.’ He pulled Cy to his feet and peered into his face. ‘You have given this some thought, haven’t you? You did work out a rough story outline, surely? I mean, you didn’t just grab the dreamsilk and let it drag you back into the dream any old how?’ He stood back as Cy didn’t answer. Then he began to stamp his foot in fury. ‘Of all the, the . . . Sixty-Seven Stumbling Stupidities. Cy . . . Cy . . . you, you . . . Sieve-head!’ he ranted. He dragged his fingers through his hair and bit his beard.

  ‘I couldn’t help it!’ said Cy. ‘It just grabbed me and pulled me in! Anyway,’ he added, ‘isn’t that what a good story is supposed to do?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said the dwarf. ‘Except that in this Story, you’re letting your imagination run wild. It needs some discipline!’

  ‘I thought you said that a story had a life of its own,’ protested Cy.

  The dwarf glared at Cy. ‘This is the very last dream I do with you . . . you . . . rebellious . . . raconteur. You are telling the story, so you need to have some kind of grip, a sort of overview.’ He looked at Cy for a long moment. ‘You haven’t thought about it at all, have you?’

  ‘I have thought about practically nothing else,’ said Cy truthfully. ‘I was worried about the raid, the fires, and there is one Viking in particular—’ He broke off as he heard the sound of running feet.

  Cy dived down beside a rain barrel at the corner of a house. Someone had stopped at the end of their alleyway. The figure cast a long shadow on the ground. It had the shape of a tall warrior wearing a helmet. Cy shrank back and squeezed himself as far behind the barrel as possible. The man advanced slowly down the lane looking cautiously from side to side, eyes glaring out from the eye sockets of his helmet. He had almost reached Cy’s hiding place when from behind him came shouts and the clash of metal, sword on sword. He swung around and ran back the way he had come.

  Cy relaxed slightly, trembling with relief. He hadn’t got a clear look at the man’s face, but he was almost sure that it was the Viking who had thrown the axe at his head and kept appearing in his waking dream. Had he caused his figure to appear just now by speaking about him? Cy didn’t know.

  ‘You’re not doing this properly!’ shrieked the Dream Master. ‘Stories need structure. This is completely out of control! Stop it! Now!’

  ‘I can’t,’ Cy whispered.

  The Dream Master glared at him. ‘Well, do something! You can’t have characters running about all over the place.’

  Cy peered out from his hiding place. To him, running seemed a very good idea at the moment. Any second now someone else would come this way and catch sight of him wedged in behind this rain barrel, and he didn’t reckon his chances if they did. He recalled that Hilde had said something about a path to the river, a way to safety. At the other end of the lane, away from the noise of battle, he thought he saw the glint of light on water. He grabbed the Dream Master’s arm. ‘I think the river is that way, and Hilde said there was a path.’

  ‘Hilde?’ snapped the dwarf, snatching his arm back. ‘Suddenly we have a Hilde. Who is Hilde?’

  ‘Ummm,’ said Cy. ‘Someone I met in the first dream. A girl. A Saxon princess.’

  ‘You must start thinking about this story cohesively,’ said the Dream Master. ‘Is her character really necessary?’ he demanded. ‘Does she fulfil a useful purpose?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cy, remembering the axe which had just missed his head because Hilde had elbowed him out of the way. He glanced from side to side. The alleyway was empty. ‘I’m going to make a run for it,’ he told the dwarf. And before the Dream Master could reply Cy got to his feet and raced off down the lane.

  ‘I’m too old for this,’ gasped the little man as he puffed after Cy. ‘Slow down.’

  Cy didn’t check his speed. Without stopping he belted round the corner at the end of the lane, and ran right into someone.

  ‘Owwfff!’ yelped Cy and fell over backwards. When he caught his breath he looked up.

  A very annoyed Saxon princess, her blue eyes bright with anger, stood in front of him barring his path to the river.

  CHAPTER •13•

  ‘COWARD!’ SHE SPAT at him.

  ‘No,’ said Cy. ‘I’m not . . . I wasn’t . .
. I mean, I amn’t.’

  ‘You ran away to save yourself,’ Hilde sneered at him.

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Cy stuttered.

  ‘You left me alone to help an old man to safety.’

  ‘I left you . . .’ Cy thought desperately. He could feel his street-cred slipping away fast here. Then he remembered the Viking warrior, and some vague idea about chivalry and damsels in distress came into his head. ‘I left you . . . to . . . to stay behind and . . . er, joust for your honour.’

  ‘Ignorant Idiot!’ the Dream Master’s voice hissed in Cy’s ear. ‘That’s straight out of King Arthur. You’re with the Vikings, remember?’

  Hilde looked at Cy as though he had gone right off his rocker. ‘What nonsense are you talking now?’

  ‘They broke through the front door,’ said Cy thinking quickly. ‘There was a Viking warrior, a huge man. He came towards me swinging his sword. It was a terrifying sight, but I stood my ground. I managed to hold them up for a few precious seconds to give you time to get away.’

  ‘Oh,’ Hilde hesitated then, unsure. ‘Oh . . . well, then . . . I thank you.’

  Cy uncrossed his fingers. Technically it was true. He had delayed their pursuers a bit. She didn’t need to know that what in fact had really held the Vikings up was the falling roof beam clonking Harald on the head.

  ‘Forgive my rudeness,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Cy tried not to sound too smug.

  Hilde turned away and knelt down beside her grandfather who was sitting in the grass by the river.

  ‘There was a terrific fight,’ Cy went on, anxious not to lose his advantage. He had to show this bossy girl that he was as good as she was.

  ‘Uhuh,’ said Hilde. She had dipped a cloth in the river and was bathing her grandfather’s face.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cy. ‘Arm-to-arm combat; we struggled for ages. This man was about ten feet tall,’ he added.

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Hilde.

  ‘No, really,’ said Cy, thinking that now, for once, he had the perfect opportunity to use his imagination. ‘He towered over me, eyes flashing with hatred. He had the strength of six men, at least.’

  Hilde opened her own eyes very wide.

  ‘You have no idea,’ said Cy.

  ‘But I do,’ said Hilde calmly. ‘For I know the man of whom you speak quite well. He wishes to marry me, but my family have refused. This is why he pursues me. His name is Harald, eldest son of Erik.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cy.

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said Hilde. She stood up. ‘You should be a skald instead of a swineherd. Your stories are very entertaining.’ She pointed at her grandfather. ‘You help Grandfather. I will go ahead and make sure the way is safe.’

  Cy went over to help the old man to his feet. As he leant down to offer him his arm he looked into his face. Eyes deep with wisdom looked back at Cy. The expression was so like his own Grampa’s that Cy caught his breath.

  The old man reached out a frail hand and Cy gave him his arm to lean on. Cy made a rude face at Hilde’s back as they set out after her, through the long grass.

  Hilde’s grandfather chuckled as he saw Cy’s expression. ‘You are a good storyteller, boy. Don’t be ashamed of it, it is a great art.’

  Storyteller! Cy’s heart jumped as he remembered the reason he was here. He was supposed to be finishing this story off properly. He had to dream up a satisfactory ending, and he’d better do it right away. Cy quickened his pace to catch up with Hilde.

  ‘Listen.’ He caught at her sleeve. ‘Stop a moment, I have to think what we are going to do.’

  Hilde shook herself free from Cy’s grasp. ‘I know exactly what we are going to do. We will find somewhere safe to hide until nightfall, and then make our way southwards to the camp of King Eadred and his army. But, for the moment,’ she glanced anxiously around her, ‘we must avoid being captured by Harald, Erik’s son.’

  ‘Too late for that, I fear,’ called a voice behind them.

  Cy and Hilde turned together.

  On the path behind them stood a Viking warrior. It was a figure Cy recognized at once. Tall and helmeted, in one hand he held his war sword, in the other, his battle-axe.

  ‘You are surrounded by my men,’ said Harald. ‘Give up at once. The old one cannot run and the boy cannot fight.’

  ‘Perhaps he cannot,’ Hilde’s breath tore from her in a long ragged sound, ‘but I certainly can!’ And she flung herself forwards at Harald like a frenzied wild cat.

  CHAPTER •14•

  AT LEAST ONE good thing will come of this, thought Cy, as Harald’s men grabbed the snarling Hilde and dragged her to one side. It gets her off marrying him. There’s no way that he’s going to go for her after that.

  Harald wiped the blood from the scratches on his face. He smiled grimly at Hilde. Then he stepped forward and struck Hilde’s grandfather a blow which sent him to the ground.

  At once Hilde stopped struggling. ‘Infamous bully,’ she shouted.

  ‘I will have you, willing or not,’ said Harald.

  ‘It is not me that you want,’ cried Hilde. ‘It is kingship that you seek, and you think that you will find it by marrying me.’

  Harald laughed in such a way that caused Cy to shiver. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I seek your hand neither for your looks nor temperament. Your uncle, King Eadred, is marching north with his army to drive us Norsemen from this land. My father Erik, famed for his mighty axe, and I, Harald, his first-born and heir, will do battle with him at Stainmore. There we will kill him and wipe out his army. Then, royal child, I will marry you and in time I can claim rights to all this kingdom.’

  ‘Never!’ shrieked Hilde. ‘I will never marry you!’

  Harald looked at her coldly. He moved nearer Hilde’s grandfather and raised his sword slowly. ‘One should respect the aged,’ he said, ‘and I know that he is no threat to me, as being by your mother’s side he bears no royal blood, yet . . .’ He placed the point of his sword at the old man’s throat.

  ‘Don’t!’ Hilde cried out.

  Harald’s eyes narrowed and he surveyed her carefully.

  ‘Please,’ the word came from between Hilde’s teeth.

  Harald lowered his sword. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Now let us be gone from here. We must make haste to reach my father.’ He glanced at Cy. ‘Deal with the boy,’ he ordered one of his men.

  Cy staggered back. What did ‘deal with’ mean exactly? He looked at Hilde. Her mouth had dropped open.

  ‘We need the boy with us,’ she said quickly. ‘He tends my grandfather.’

  ‘You can see to the old man yourself,’ said Harald curtly.

  ‘I . . . I . . . I’m not important,’ said Cy feebly. ‘I’m only a swineherd.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harald. ‘I guessed as much. I saw at once that you had no skills in fighting. Therefore, you are of no use to us.’ He nodded at the man closest to Cy. ‘Get rid of him.’

  The man nearest Cy drew a long knife from his belt.

  Cy felt his insides becoming like hot liquid. He looked around wildly. He was on his own and there was nowhere to run. Why did the Dream Master always disappear when he needed him most?

  ‘He can tell stories,’ said a voice suddenly. It was Hilde’s grandfather who had spoken up. ‘Imagination and dreams come alive through his words. I have heard him. They are good stories . . .’

  Harald went close to Cy and gazed into his face. ‘You are a skald?’ he asked.

  Cy forced himself to look back. He stared into eyes half-crazed with war and power, and tried desperately not to blink.

  ‘Yeum,’ he managed a strangled gasp. It was true. Matt had said that he had a gift for storytelling. Cy nodded his head. ‘I am a skald.’

  ‘Tell me one,’ said Harald. He gave an evil grin. ‘Tell me a story to save your life.’

  Every story Cy had ever known slid right to the bottom of his brain. ‘I . . . I . . .’ His voice tailed off. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t
panic, he told himself. It was no good. He never operated well under pressure, and this certainly equalled any class exam he’d ever taken.

  There was silence. Time hung like a drop of water from a leaky tap.

  And as Cy watched, he knew the exact microsecond that Harald’s patience ran out. He saw it in his face, in his eyes. But, just as Harald’s attention began to slip, the moment before he started to look away, Hilde had a coughing fit.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she spluttered. ‘So sorry . . . forgive me, Cy. Please begin again. What did you say?’

  Cy stared at her stupidly.

  Hilde tried again. ‘I thought I heard you speak. Didn’t you say . . . “There was once a famous Viking . . .?”’ She rolled her eyes at Harald and then back to Cy.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Hilde’s grandfather broke in at this point. ‘I too recall that story. It was about a proud warrior.’ He looked at Cy, then stared hard at Harald, and then looked back to Cy.

  They’re trying to help me! thought Cy. He felt a sudden surge of relief. He should tell a story . . . about a Viking warrior. ‘Once upon a time,’ he said quickly. ‘Once upon a time . . . er . . . the Viking, Erik, famed for his mighty axe, came across the bleak North Sea in many longships. Longships with high sails and prows of painted dragon heads . . . They came, they saw, they conquered . . .’ Cy improvised frantically as he tried to remember what Mrs Chalmers had read out to them on the bus as they were travelling to York. ‘And this Erik fathered many sons, each of them mighty warriors . . .’ Cy noticed that Hilde was nodding her head vigorously towards Harald. Of course! Harald! ‘Particularly the eldest,’ Cy went on. ‘He was the mightiest, first-born, number one, the main man,’ Cy risked a quick glance at Harald. His lips were curved in a half smile. ‘He was Erik’s heir, and would inherit all his lands and wealth. Erik, whose famous axe ran red with blood, known in song and story as Erik Bloodaxe . . .’

  ‘Erik Bloodaxe!’ Harald interrupted. He turned to his men. ‘That is good. I like that. From now on my father will be known as Erik Bloodaxe, and I am the main man.’ He thumped Cy on the shoulder. ‘You are indeed a skald,’ he said. ‘And we will need a good storyteller to give the account of our victory at Stainmore. You will use the best words you know to tell about my deeds of bravery and skill in battle?’