by Leanne Hall
‘Do you think Paul overdosed on this stuff?’ Wolfboy’s hand tightens on my knee.
‘I think he’s taken the medication too often, without enough of a break in between dreams. He wouldn’t be the only person. I saw someone else with the same problem last month.’
I think of Paul’s twitching eyes from earlier. Even from here I can see that they’ve started to move again. ‘Could he be stuck in a dream?’
Amelia looks at me approvingly. ‘I think that’s exactly what’s happening. How long ago did you find him?’
‘About three hours ago,’ says Blake, ‘but he was already asleep when I found him, so we don’t know how long he’s been this way.’ That makes Amelia frown.
‘If he doesn’t wake by tomorrow, we need to go in and drag him out.’
‘How will we do that?’ Wolfboy sounds even more sceptical now. I don’t blame him.
‘It will be easier if I show you upstairs. Come.’
At first I think the staircase leads to another floor, but then I realise that I’m looking at black sky and stars instead of a ceiling. The room has walls but no roof. The walls are lined with metal shelves crowded with pots. All around us are the monstery silhouettes of plants, their leaves flashing silver in the moonlight.
I home in on an old margarine tub containing a familiar white plant.
‘This is the same as my teacup plant, isn’t it?’ I ask Blake.
She nods. ‘Indian Pipe. One of the few plants in the whole world that doesn’t need any sunlight to survive.’
My plant didn’t stand a chance in sunny Plexus. I don’t want Blake or Wolfboy to find out I’ve already killed it. ‘What’s your favourite?’
Blake drags me to another shelf. ‘This one—a Bat Plant. Isn’t it creepy?’
The Bat Plant’s leaves are bat-wing-shaped, with hairy trailing tendrils. At the plant’s centre is a twisted black flower like a shrivelled face.
‘Yech.’ I’m not brave enough to lean closer. The flower might come to life and bite me. I turn to get Wolfboy’s attention, but he is nowhere among the shelves. Amelia has disappeared too.
‘Up here.’
Wolfboy stands on top of the far wall, the moon sitting on his shoulder, the star-scattered sky surrounding him. My breath catches. He looks at ease on the high wall, at least four metres above the floor, a ladder resting at his feet. I half expect him to throw his head back and howl, like he did when we first met.
‘This way,’ he says.
I touch the ladder and look up. The rungs are solid under my hands but it’s a long way up. Wolfboy kneels and holds out his hand. ‘A rung at a time, that’s all. Eyes on me.’
When I crawl over the lip of the wall I’m relieved to see there’s no corresponding drop on the other side, only the large flat rooftop of the apartment building. I spy a greenhouse in the corner, and literally hundreds of plants on wheeled gurneys lining the edges of the roof, and crammed around chimneys and air ducts. Amelia is still nowhere in sight.
‘Wow.’
I’ve never really thought about it before, but there’s not much in the way of successful gardens in Shyness, at least not as far as I’ve seen. The Memorial Gardens is a graveyard of fallen trees; lawns and nature strips are nonexistent, and the creek is choked with dead foliage. And yet here, miraculously, is a rooftop jungle growing in the dark.
Blake pulls herself over the wall and skips ahead of us. ‘Do you love it?’
I do love it, but I’m even more confused than ever. I catch Wolfboy’s eye and he seems similarly bemused. I try to think up ways a crack gardener could help Paul. The rooftop looks as if it’s organised into plant types, in the way a botanic garden might be. One corner is devoted to cactus-like plants; a row of low glass boxes is home to a group of anaemic flowers. In the centre is something else familiar. I pull Wolfboy towards it, ducking under a vine with purple fruit.
It’s growing in a rusted bathtub with clawed feet, a fairly ordinary tree, except for the dozens of cream trumpet-shaped flowers crowding its branches. The flowers have delicate frilled edges, and hang face-down, like petticoats hung out to dry.
‘Datura,’ I say.
Wolfboy plucks a flower and examines it. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. Look at it. Exactly like the drawing.’ Its scent is so strong my head spins. ‘It doesn’t look poisonous, does it? It’s too beautiful for that.’
‘Why would Amelia grow datura?’
‘I don’t know. It shouldn’t be able to grow in the dark either.’
‘Over here!’ Blake beckons from the door of the greenhouse, practically jumping up and down.
I smile at her. ‘She’s in her element, isn’t she? How did she meet Amelia?’
Wolfboy drops the flower on the concrete. ‘No idea. They’re not the likeliest of pals, are they?’
I pick a path through the pots. ‘Do you think Blake wants to be a gardener or something?’
‘She’s interested in everything about nature. She could be a zoologist or botanist or biologist.’ Wolfboy nearly trips on a coiled garden hose. ‘Except she hasn’t been to school in years. Even Paul and Thom and I left before finishing. We’ve probably all screwed up our prospects.’
Amelia ushers us inside the greenhouse.
The air in the glass shed is warm and humid. We huddle in the only space that isn’t occupied by a trolley. Scant moonlight makes it through the dusty glass. There are four industrial lamps with large metal sunflower heads, but they aren’t switched on.
‘So the family business is a nursery?’ asks Wolfboy.
Amelia ignores his question. ‘If you want to meet the real Queen of the Night,’ she says, squatting low and patting an enormous glazed pot sitting on a pallet, ‘then here she is. The night-blooming cereus.’
We all look at the plant, which looks like a stringy and not-very-healthy cactus. It has several tightly closed buds scattered along its dry arms. Blake dotes over it.
Amelia sighs. ‘I thought she was getting close.’ She flicks on a lamp and trains its warm yellow glow on a group of plants. Only when she’s done this does she address Wolfboy.
‘I don’t run a nursery. I’m a herbalist. My grandfather did this, and his father, and his father before him, although they preferred to call themselves wildcrafters back then. I have all their notes and books and case studies, passed down through generations. We don’t just prescribe and use plants, we grow them. Every plant on this rooftop has a purpose. Each has properties that can help or harm humans. My job is to grow and propagate them, then prepare them for use.’
‘You can make us a medicine that will wake Paul up, can’t you?’ says Blake. It’s clear from the way she looks at Amelia that she thinks she can do anything—even drive away the Darkness with a single leaf, if she wanted to.
‘No, I can’t do that.’
‘Oh,’ says Blake.
‘What I can offer you is—less straightforward than that. The pills that Paul took are derived from naturally occurring plant substances. I have those plants growing in this garden. I suggest we send someone into Paul’s dream to talk him out again. Coax him back.’
There’s silence. Somewhere in the greenhouse, water drips. I want to laugh, but no one else is laughing.
Blake breaks the silence. ‘Of course…’ she says, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
I wait for Wolfboy to speak up, but he doesn’t. Someone has to say something.
‘What do you mean, send someone into his dream?’ I ask.
‘Exactly how it sounds.’ I can’t see Amelia’s face properly with the lamp blasting behind her. ‘I’ll use the plants to make a preparation that allows the user to penetrate the subconscious. Not just their own, but that of others near them. We’ll give a dose to Paul, and a dose to one of you.’
‘Bags not me,’ says Blake.
‘I’ll do it.’ Wolfboy is unhesitating.
‘Whoever takes the solution will also take the blue pill to induce a deep sl
eep. The combination of the two will give the ability to enter Paul’s dreams.’
I frown. ‘How many times have you done this before?’
‘I’ve never had to. Usually the sleeper wakes up before it’s necessary. But I’ve tried these plant extracts on myself, and they do what I say they do. I need twenty-four hours to prepare, and it’s a full moon tomorrow. That’s good timing. In the meantime, you can cross your fingers that Paul wakes up first.’
‘Okay, then,’ says Wolfboy, as if it’s all decided. I’m already composing a lecture to deliver in private; I don’t want to parade my doubts in front of Amelia and Blake.
‘Queen?’ Blake’s voice squeaks. ‘Meels? I think it’s happening.’
Amelia waves us in closer. While we’ve been talking, one of the buds on the Queen of the Night has raised its head and started to open. Thin outer petals unfurl after their long sleep. Inside the bud are paler white petals fluttering to life. The heart of the flower seems to glow with a pure light. Soon, the flower is the size of a human hand, and opening more each minute. The baby petals in the very centre are pink.
Blake looks up at us, her face luminous and full of awe.
Amelia uses a pair of tweezers to remove a pink central petal and drop it into a jar. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Now we can collect the rest of what we need.’
twenty-five
‘Should I leave these here?’
I stand in the kitchen doorway with the empty pizza boxes and point at the rubbish bin.
Amelia is in the process of crushing spidery roots under a large blade and tipping them into a saucepan. There are jars and packets littering the counter.
‘You can wedge them between the bin and the cupboard.’
‘I could take them downstairs. Find a dumpster or someone else’s bin.’
‘That won’t be necessary. I’ve got an incinerator on the roof.’ Amelia’s steel-capped boots clip the linoleum. She places the saucepan on the stove, next to two other bubbling pans. Condensation mists on the kitchen windows. The air is pungent and medicinal.
On the other bench Blake works in a cloud of flour. Her fingers are webbed with sticky dough. Blake and Amelia look at home in the small kitchen, as if they do this all the time.
‘So, you’ve met my niece?’ I ease my phone out of my pocket. No messages. I texted Ortie earlier but she still hasn’t replied.
‘Diana?’ Amelia glances up fleetingly. ‘What a sweetie she is.’
‘She helped us put those tin cans and cups all over the streets,’ Blake chimes in.
I pick up a brown paper packet. It looks similar to the ones that Lupe was carrying in her handbag that night we first saw the blue people.
‘Don’t touch that,’ says Amelia, and I drop it immediately. It’s clear there’s no place for me in this kitchen. ‘Wildgirl’s waiting for you in the guest room. The flowers gave her hay fever so we told her to lie down.’
‘I don’t mind taking first shift watching Paul,’ I say.
‘He’s stable,’ Amelia says. ‘Blake and I can manage it between us. Besides, you two can barely keep your hands off each other. You’re better off leaving it to those who aren’t distracted.’
Blake snorts, then when she catches me staring daggers at her becomes very interested in drying her hands on her apron. Amelia, however, stares at me calmly while my face heats up. I have a paranoid moment where I think she knows everything about me. I want to defend my professionalism, not to mention my serious concerns about Paul, but all I can think is: there are too many girls in this building. I’m outnumbered three to one.
Amelia uses a knife to gesture at the top of the refrigerator. ‘Take those with you. Wildgirl wanted something to sleep in.’
I gather the pile of clothes in my arms and hesitate at the threshold, still thinking of the brown packets.
‘Do you sell tea to Guadalupe?’
Amelia’s face brightens. ‘Yes. I make a special brew exclusively for her. I didn’t realise you knew her.’
I nod, and turn to go.
‘Wolfboy,’ says Amelia. ‘Don’t worry about Paul. We need you rested for tomorrow. It’s getting late. So relax, and sleep.’
The residential wing unfolds down a long corridor lined with faded red wallpaper. A door is ajar halfway down, spilling a shard of light across the carpet. The guest room.
Nia sits cross-legged in the middle of a four-poster bed, swamped by the hanging canopy and the brocade bedspread and dozens of cushions.
‘Crazy set-up, huh?’ She sneezes violently.
I place the pyjamas on the end of the bed and sit down. Nia grabs a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside table. A mammoth gilt-edged mirror runs parallel to the bed. All the furniture is antique.
‘It smells a bit musty in here, I know, but the bed linen is clean. I checked.’ Nia blows her nose loudly. ‘I wish I had my antihistamines with me. I wish I had a lot of things with me. My toothbrush. A change of clothes. Socks.’
‘I brought you pyjamas.’ I shift further up the bed. The mattress is so springy I could slide off at any second.
‘Thanks.’
I feel paralysed by shyness, even though Amelia was right. I haven’t been able to keep my hands far away from Nia all night. But now I’m in the same room with her, alone, with a bed and no one to bother us, I feel unable to talk, let alone touch her.
‘I’m not sleepy, though,’ she says belatedly.
I chance a look at her. She doesn’t look too relaxed either. I wonder if she’s been in this situation before. I don’t mean in an apartment building with a comatose teenager and a budding wildcrafter, but on a bed with a boy. I’ll kid myself she hasn’t.
‘Me either,’ I say. I move next to her and arrange a pillow against the headboard. I haven’t bothered to take my boots off. I unbuckle my watch and put it next to the bed. ‘It’s only ten-thirty in City time.’
‘I’d normally still be up, reading.’ Nia reaches out and takes my hand, laces her fingers through mine. Looks at me through those lashes. I remind myself to keep breathing. Everything about this situation seems brand new, as if I’ve never been with a girl before.
‘Let’s talk for a while, and then if we get bored we can go exploring. Amelia said we can go anywhere on this floor.’
‘She only meant you. I don’t think she likes me very much.’
‘That’s just her way. I don’t think she cares whether people like her or not.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, not wanting to disagree with her.
Nia strokes the back of my hand and it nearly drives me wild. I close my eyes for a second.
‘Do you think she knows what she’s doing?’ she asks.
‘Not sure.’ I’ve been trying not to think about it too much. If Lupe trusts Amelia, though, that’s got to count for something. ‘It’s worth a try.’
‘Why does it have to be you, though?’ Nia slides closer to me. She smells sweet, like pears. It must be her shampoo.
‘Who else would do it? Paul’s my oldest friend. I have to do this.’
I sound less conflicted than I feel.
‘So, do you have a game plan?’ she asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Amelia said that Paul needed to be coaxed out of the dream. If someone, I mean if you need to talk him into doing something he might not want to do…You should think about the best way to get through to him. And you should tell me. We could practise what to say.’
I get a sudden urge to tell her what Doctor Gregory said about Paul. But I don’t feel like telling her what happened after, at the velo. Too much. I’ll scare her away, right when she’s never been closer.
Nia smiles for no reason.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Turn around and look in the mirror.’
I twist my head slowly, reluctant to look away when her face is this close to mine. I see me in the foreground, with Nia’s face over my shoulder. Red wallpaper for a backdrop. Marble and velvet and gold. We’re from an
other place and time.
‘This mirror sucks,’ I say. ‘I’m going to wake up and think there’s someone else in the room with us. It’s gonna give me nightmares.’
‘We look good together,’ she says. ‘I’ve been thinking…’
‘Yeah?’ I turn to face her once more.
She opens her mouth to speak but then her whole face scrunches. She covers her face with her hands and sneezes. When it has passed she takes her hands away.
‘Take two. I don’t want to jinx it by talking about it, Wolfie, but I’ve decided that we’re going out. You and me.’
This is such a surprise I don’t say anything at all, but I do reach up and brush a strand of hair off her face.
‘If that’s okay with you,’ she adds. There’s a touch of uncertainty in her voice. I lean forward and kiss the tip of her nose in lieu of telling her how amazed I am that she always finds the courage to say these things.
‘Yes,’ I say. I’ve pulled off the impossible.
‘Good.’ The smallest of smiles curves her lips. And then she breathes out, relieved. ‘Good. Hand me those pyjamas. I’m cold. I want to get under the covers.’
She begins to do that clever thing girls do when they change shirts and yank their bras out of an armhole without you seeing any flesh. When she’s done she flips back the doona and climbs inside.
‘You getting in?’
I don’t wait to be asked twice. I unlace my boots and join her. Put Delilah’s book next to the bed. It’s getting dog-eared from being carried in my pocket. Nia wriggles out of her tights under the sheets, flinging them around her head theatrically and across the room. They land in a black puddle on the rose-patterned carpet.
We lie apart, her on her side of the bed, and me on mine. She doesn’t bother with the pyjama pants. Her arms are caramel-brown against the white sheets. The sight of her hair spilling over the pillow must be a dream, a dream I think I’ve had before. She presses on my bruised cheek.