by Sarah Noffke
“Roya,” he says again. I stiffen.
I don’t love him. The words are strong in my mind, trumping the messages from my heart. Without hesitation I bound in the opposite direction, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest. Four strokes bring me out of the thickest steam. Joseph is on the bank.
Like I’m competing in the Olympics, I race for the shore, feeling a weight start to tear into my chest. The hold my mind had on my heart wanes. Only slightly but it’s enough to make me hesitate. To consider turning back, swimming into Chase’s arms which I know with such certainty are waiting to hold me. I’m roughly twenty-five feet from Joseph. Although I’m still cutting through the water each movement is slower than the last, not filled with as much urgency.
“Joseph,” I yelp, like I’m drowning. It’s my last rational idea to avoid my heart’s wrong desires. He swivels his head around, confused concern written on his face. The moment his eyes connect with mine the spell is weakened. Looking at Joseph reminds me of who I am in my heart. Realization dawns on Joseph’s face. The concern that blankets his features next constricts my throat. He dives back into the water, making hurried strokes until he reaches me.
“Where?” he says, pushing me in front of him, paddling behind me.
“Over there,” I motion with my head.
When we reach the banks, he looks me over, like I might be hurt. “You should have known better than to go off by yourself,” he reprimands.
“I didn’t realize I had,” I say, an apology in my tone. Making him worry is the last thing I want right now. He has too much to deal with already.
Joseph gives me a measured glare, then lets out a relieved sigh. “Stay on the bank, away from the steam, would you?”
“Yeah,” I say, distracted by the three figures racing over the hill, George is in the lead. There’s a look of horror in his eyes. It’s expressed perfectly by the words that spill out in gasps as he sprints to me. “Where is he?!”
“He’s gone.” I rush forward and have to stop myself just before I throw my shaking arms around him. “It’s all right. He disappeared as soon as Joseph showed up.”
George bends over, breathing deeply.
“Damn it, Roya,” Trent says, sounding irritated and winded. “You can’t join us if I you’re going to bring your stupid stalker with you. Not that he interrupted anything of real importance,” he says, angling angry eyes at Joseph.
A mischievous smile springs to Joseph’s mouth. Trent smacks his bat into his hand. “That’s a rotten game, mate.”
“Oh, you didn’t catch any snipes? Too bad. Maybe it’s the wrong season for snipe hunting,” Joseph says, laughter in his voice.
“I suspect there’s never a good season to catch made-up creatures,” George says, standing up straight, trying to sound menacing although it isn’t effective.
“Now, now, George, just because you’re a poor hunter doesn’t mean you have to call snipes made up.” Joseph splashes water at the three of them.
“Hey,” I say, “I thought you said no splashing.”
“The Middlings left,” Joseph says, sending a wave of water in my direction.
Scanning the lagoon, I realize he’s right.
“You’re so cruel, Joseph,” Samara says. She sounds on the verge of tears as she throws her bat and bag onto the ground. “I can’t believe you brought us all out here just to play this stupid trick on us. You’re the worst.”
Joseph has been moving forward in the water as she speaks. “Oh, that’s not the only reason I brought you out here.” He bolts forward, picks her up, and throws her over his shoulder.
“No! No!” Samara screams. Laughs. It’s the first genuine one I’ve heard from her since we’ve returned from the Grotte. Joseph leaps back out into the water. “Don’t! Please don’t!” she pleads.
A treacherous smile flashes across his face. “Begging only encourages me,” he says, dropping her into the water. She bobs for a second, looking furious and on the verge of laughter all at the same time. Joseph’s already striding back up toward George and Trent. “Who’s next?”
George laughs, pulling off his shoes and throwing them at Joseph. Trent dives at Joseph, and the two explode the water around them with a giant spray. The three take turns flinging water and insults at Joseph for the next hour. As usual, Joseph smiles, taking it all in like he’s being lavished with compliments. For Joseph attention always does the trick. It’s what he wants at the end of the day. And although I’ve been restricted to the shore, I still enjoy watching my friends take turns tackling my brother, so much so my sides ache from laughter.
Although Samara has laughed and smiled over the last hour, none of it has appeared easy, like each positive emotion is one she robbed from someone else. Too many times I catch her staring at Joseph, only to realize he’s engulfed in antics that don’t involve her. The disappointment in not having his attention isn’t something she’s hiding well. And Joseph doesn’t appear to have any hint that her attention is hinged on his every move. Finally she floats away, leaving the three guys wading in the lagoon water. Soon after, George breaks off, headed in my direction.
It’s precisely at that moment that I know something extremely important and personal about Joseph. It springs up the moment he’s alone with Trent. The realization stems from his thoughts, but is validated by my observations. Not only does it feel wrong to have access to someone like this, to know his darkest secrets, but it’s made worse that this one is shrouded in shame. Not only do I now know something deeply personal about Joseph, but I also know I can’t confront him about it. He isn’t ready.
George wades out of the water, distracting me from the most recent epiphany. The brilliant blue water drips off his face and body. He’s built perfectly like a statue—like something an artist would want to make—trimmed waist, broad shoulders, sculpted chest. The knife wound from Allouette is pink with fresh new skin. My eyes linger up his torso until I catch the gratified look in his eyes. I blush furiously.
“I’m going to keep my distance,” George says, taking a seat a few feet away. “I sense that a certain someone wouldn’t want me too close to you.”
“Oh, Joseph doesn’t care,” I say.
“I think he does,” George says, chewing on his bottom lip. “But he’s not who I’m referring to. Although Chase is gone, I sense he’d return if the situation warranted.”
“Which means you and I shouldn’t dream travel together,” I say, knowing the implications laden in the statement.
“Right,” he says with a subtle smile.
My mind travels to Chase and his preoccupation with me. The question keeps my mind constantly searching. It’s the question that precedes every meditation and awakes me from every dream. Still I’m no closer to knowing the truth. And my confusion is steadily morphing into anger which is spiraling into hopelessness.
“Hey, it’s all right,” George says softly. “You want to get out of here?”
“Yes, but I think I need to be alone. I’m going back to the Institute,” I say, my mood having plummeted from thinking about Chase.
He nods, staring off into the blue. “I understand.”
“You always do.” I go to pat his arm but stop myself. “Thanks,” I finally say. “Would you tell everyone I left?”
“Of course,” he says just before I recede back into my own bed.
Chapter Fifteen
After returning from Iceland I conjure up a place to begin my lucid dreaming. This is part of how Ren taught me to ground my thoughts inside a dream. If I begin in a place of my choosing rather than falling into a dream, then I’m more likely to keep my awareness. Slowing my breath, I repeat the phrase that delivers me to a dreamland where I will have control:
I’m about to dream. Stay aware. Stay awake inside the dream.
Again and again I repeat this until I’m standing on a cliff staring out at a gray sea. The winds sweep furiously at it. Although I’m dreaming, I’m still highly aware of everything. The thoughts in my head
are active, possessing the power to shift everything around me. Chase is not allowed here, I say in my head, locking the door to my dream.
As Ren instructed I can limit specifics, make conscious choices, escape and even invent elements in the dream. Still, my subconscious is free to drop in its own unprocessed thoughts and emotions. This is the part that’s made lucid dreaming the most fun. To actively witness the strangeness of my subconscious is like exploring a carnival funhouse. Each room plays on reality and is also spiked with something so askew it entertains and also baffles.
I gaze down, feeling a constriction around my torso. Champagne-colored silk corsets my body. At my waist the fabric billows out, curving into a bell shape and draping all the way to the grass under my feet. A wedding dress.
“It’s an antique,” a girl with a French accent says, pinning up curls on the top of my head. She leans around my shoulder. “It vaz his mozer’s,” she says, a proud look in her opaque eyes.
This must be what Ren was talking about. Hello, subconscious. Thanks for dropping into my dream.
The girl hands me a mirror. The handle is gold and ornately decorated with flowers and vines. Spots from age fleck the surface. “You are a most striking bride,” the girl says, sounding pleased. Before I have a chance to bring the mirror up to my face I’m interrupted.
“You can’t do this!” Aiden yells behind me. “You can’t marry Chase!”
I turn to see him stride through an isle of chairs, hydrangeas lining the ceremonial space.
“She can and she vill,” the girl says, stepping in front of me, blocking Aiden. My mouth feels sewn shut.
“Roya, you don’t love him,” Aiden petitions, fists clenched by his side. “I will die before I allow you to do this.”
“Then you vill die,” the girl says, snapping her fingers. Two men materialize on either side of Aiden. They are towers of muscle, dwarfing him between them. Horror rips across Aiden’s face, but his attempts to fight their holds are futile. One seizes his arms, the other places two meaty hands on either side of his head. The next movement is swift, followed by a sickening crack. Aiden falls to the flower-covered earth as loosely as a bundle of rope.
“No!” I scream. My eyes snap open in my darkened bedroom. Hands jerk to my chest, which feels as if it’s been shattered. Bolting upright in bed I’m immediately restricted by the sheets tightly swaddling my body. Hot breath hitches in my throat as the image of Aiden’s dead body burns into my vision.
♦
“Can I have a private word with you?” I say to Shuman, interrupting a meeting she’s having with a dark-haired girl.
Her eyes glance at the clock on the wall, a surprise in them. Joseph and I had planned to news report after breakfast. I skipped the meal and came straight to the Panther room.
“We will continue this later,” Shuman says to the girl, who nods at her, then regards me with thoughtful interest before leaving the conference room.
“Something is troubling you,” Shuman says. It’s not a question.
“Yes. Ren explained to me how to stop Chase from entering my dreams, but I just had one and I’m not sure it’s working.”
“Did Chase actually invade this dream?”
“No, but it was about him. And it was violent, reeking of things he would have done,” I say, loosening the lump in my throat before continuing. “And there were Voyageurs I don’t know in the dream.”
“I think the answer to this is evident in why you sought my advice, rather than Ren’s. Your instinct told you I would be of most help, is that right?”
“Well, yes,” I almost stutter. Although I’m worried the dream means I’m failing to block Chase, I also sense it needs to be interpreted, which is a specialty of Shuman’s.
“Chase did not invade your dream. It sounds as though no one did. What you experienced was partly your subconscious playing out its own fears and also I suspect something else of great importance.” She cracks her knuckles before continuing. “Tell me, what did these Voyageurs look like?”
“One was a girl, maybe my age. She had reddish, curly hair. Then there were these two brute-looking men. They appeared so similar that I could have sworn they were twins. Maybe they invaded my dream,” I reason with a sigh.
“No, that is not what happened. For one, dreams cannot be invaded by multiple people. The way it works when someone enters your dream is they have tangled their subconscious with yours. This is impossible to achieve with more than two subconsciouses. Secondly, the people you have just described to me are Voyageurs who were once under Chase’s command. They are now dead.”
“What?! How would my subconscious know about them?”
“Your subconscious is connected to the universal source.”
“What does that mean?”
“Dreaming delivers you to a plain of existence where you plug into the source. As a clairvoyant you plug into the source when awake, but your connection to it is heightened when news reporting, meditating, and dreaming. All information, past, present, and future, is stored in this universal source. It is impossible for me to know why these figures were sent to you in your dream. Your subconscious retrieved them from the source for a reason. The reason is most likely connected to the assorted details in the dream, which I would strongly encourage you to interrupt. Your brother might be of great assistance with this, since he has a knack for the art of dream interpretation.”
“Can you tell me anything else about these Voyageurs that will help us interpret the meaning of the dream?”
“Actually, I can. I will tell you that when Chase tired of them they were murdered. Much the same way he does when he no longer has use for someone.”
I sit quietly, listening to the clock tick.
“Can I offer you an insight?” Shuman asks.
“Yes,” I say, desperate for anything that can untangle this web.
“Now that you know your subconscious delivers information about real events of the past while lucid dreaming, it will affect the weight you put upon it. It is possible that this dream has been a setup, to prepare you with the confidence you need to accept information yet to come.”
Shuman, too many times, has spoken like this. Like she’s aware of future events regarding my life and only gives me enough clues so that I’ll continue down the path she sees. I used to resent her for this, but now I understand that this vision of hers is probably a burden. Moreover, I sense she’s trying to help in her weird and mystic way.
“Be careful not to limit anything but Chase while lucid dreaming,” she continues. “Also do not try to control too many aspects of your dreams. If you do, you will miss messages being sent to you. Be a quiet observer.”
“Okay,” I say, spotting Joseph lurking by our familiar station, giving me a puzzled look. “Thanks for your help.”
“Is everything all right?” Joseph asks when I take the chair next to him.
“Yeah, it’s just whoever runs this universe is sending me weird messages. So everything is pretty much status quo.”
“All right, we’ll discuss the mysterious meaning behind that statement after we news report. Have fun and get good stuff, little sis,” Joseph says, lying down in his own recliner.
“You too, big Joe.” I smile, clapping the headphones into place and closing my eyes.
Darkness seeps across my mind’s eye, replacing the glow of the purplish light overhead—a sign I’m about to receive a news report. I’ve entered the void, the place where all my news reports are delivered. A sound similar to thunder echoes around the blackness. A light, like sun reflecting off a mirror, pierces my vision, blinding me momentarily. The ground in the premonition rocks with a minor earthquake. Fabric arises into my vision, flowing like a flag in the wind. White and black.
The camera lens retracts until I spy two legs marching across iridescent blue carpet in slow motion. Each confident step is a trespassing, dripping with an ominous threat. One that rockets across my chest, assuring that what comes next doesn’t just endanger m
e, but everyone I know.
Everything speeds up into real time. The vision blacks out, like I’ve lost the signal. Then it flashes with a new intensity. It’s almost too bright to focus upon, like I’m staring into the sun, trying to make out its shape. Still I stay focused until the foreboding presence is as crisp as a blade of grass. Right then I know something which empties all hope from my being: soon Zhuang will invade the Institute.
Chapter Sixteen
Panic spears me at the sight of Zhuang. Somehow he’s more majestic than the last time I saw him. Starched black and white robes sharply whip around his body as he strides, closing the space that exists between him and a door. A yellow fingernail––filed into a sharp point––presses the button. I glimpse the placard above it:
Head Official
Trey Underwood
The door hasn’t even fully slid back when Zhuang slithers into the office. A guttural sound of frustration explodes from the ancient madman. Instantly he’s back in the hallway, standing stock-still. He sniffs the air. Narrows menacing eyes. Charges forward.
Determination marks his snakelike golden eyes, which look rimmed with coal. He reaches behind his head, his sleeve falling down to reveal long, sinewy muscles. With a jerk he rips the sword out from behind his back. The one he used to kill Whitney with. Stab Joseph with. Was a moment away from ending me with.
A roar like that of a territorial lion erupts from Zhuang’s mouth. To my horror an individual runs out of an office, a look of concern on the white coat’s face. Instantly the man’s expression falls slack. He stumbles, dropping on his rear end and crab walks backward in sudden panic. Zhuang raises a hand up, up, up into the air. Simultaneously the scientist levitates horizontally until his nose is touching the cold stainless steel ceiling. His head rips back and forth, tortured by the uncertainty of what comes next. A cold chuckle falls out of Zhuang’s paper-thin lips. At lightning speed, he zigzags his bony hand through the air. The hovering body follows suit slamming back and forth between the Institute walls like a ping-pong ball. Each collision is harder than the last, accompanied by the sounds of cracking and screams. Finally, the body crumples to the blue carpet, blood smearing the places where it waylaid the steel walls.