When We Got Lost in Dreamland

by Ross Welford

  Either way, I will not have Seb.

  I feel a dig in my side from Susan. She points at some trees on the other side of the flat ground where something big is moving among the trees. I strain to see, but just get flashes of white and brown, and … hair?

  Susan whispers to me: ‘Mammoth.’

  As she says this, a sounds erupts from the trees: a loud, trumpeting growl as though Dennis, Kenneth’s old dog, has been crossed with an elephant.

  ‘That’s our distraction,’ she whispers. ‘Well – that and, erm … that.’ She jerks her thumb behind her, and I think I manage to stifle my shriek of horror.

  Shielded from the view of the gang tormenting Seb, Susan’s grandmother has stripped completely naked and is smearing her body with handfuls of mud and dust. She’s rubbing it all over her prominent belly and her … and her … well, everywhere, really. Including her hair. In fact, especially her hair, which is now standing on end, aided by large amounts of dirt.

  I concentrate on looking at Mola’s head because I don’t really want to look anywhere else.

  I manage to speak, but it comes out as a croak. ‘Is … is this my dream? Am I imagining this, because that’s your grandmother and I don’t want you to think …’

  Susan puts her finger to her lips to shut me up. ‘You have done a lot, Malky. You have killed Cuthbert. Let me and Mola do this next bit.’

  She beckons me to follow her towards the clump of trees. She turns back and gives a thumbs up to Mola who returns the gesture. She doesn’t seem to care at all that she is a mad, nude old lady covered in mud.

  Half a minute later, and Susan and I are alongside the clump of trees, and we still can’t be seen by the group, who are about thirty metres in front of us, circling Seb and the book characters with spears and growling dogs.

  Are they going to kill him? He’s only seven! He shouts out for me again, and I want to run forward and grab him, but I know that I can’t.

  I hear another roar from the woods and feel another surge of fear. Then the mammoth emerges from the trees, filling my vision, and I freeze, staring.

  It is twice my height and shaped like an elephant. It has a trunk with long grey bristles, two enormous, curved white tusks and a patchy, coarse coat of reddish-brown hair. It is furious, and I have no idea why it’s staying where it is.

  No idea, that is, until it sees us, bellows again and starts to charge.

  Susan and I shrink back, instinctively, but we need not have bothered: the beast is tethered to a tree by means of a thick, rough rope of dried plant fibres tied round its front right leg. It takes a step and is stopped instantly. Like Seb’s wrists, the mammoth’s ankle has been rubbed raw and bloody.

  Susan moves towards it. What’s she doing?

  But then she beckons for me to follow her, and I think of Seb, as I inch nervously forward, towards the enormous animal.

  ‘Quick,’ says Susan, crouching down near the tree. ‘We haven’t got long.’ She has a large, flat stone in her hand that she is using to hack at the rope where it meets the tree trunk. With every blow, one or two tiny fibres fray and snap, but it’s not breaking fast enough, while over by Seb the group is getting closer to him. They have started a haunting, rhythmic chant.

  I can’t bear to watch as they lower their spears. I’m on my feet, ready to run at them, but Susan holds up her hand to stop me. ‘Not yet, Malky. Please. Wait for Mola.’ Her efforts at cutting the rope are getting slower as she tires.

  ‘Let me,’ I say. Susan sits back, exhausted, and I take the flat stone from her hand, bashing the remaining strands furiously.

  So furiously, in fact, that I don’t hear the arrival of a figure next to me. Instead, I see to my right the glint of metal. A dark-haired boy of about my age is holding out a knife to me.

  ‘You left my dad’s dirk in a crocodile’s belly. It might be useful!’

  It’s Susan who recognises him. ‘Uri?’ she says.

  Uri? Kenneth McKinley’s son?

  What’s he doing here?

  Susan is rolling with this dream world more easily than I am, and she smiles at Uri while I just stand there, mouth open.

  ‘You know my name?’ says Uri.

  ‘Yes!’ says Susan. ‘We knew your dad. I recognised you from the photograph on his table!’

  The boy nods and smiles, shyly. Bewildered, I look between the two of them. ‘How?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ says Uri. ‘Some things just are!’

  ‘You’re not wrong there, son!’ says Kenneth, stepping out from behind a thick tree, his kilt ripped to shreds, exposing his legs, which are no longer skinny and old but young and muscled.

  ‘Kenneth!’ I gasp. ‘What … how … I mean, you were killed by the crocs … weren’t you?’

  ‘You’re forgetting, laddie: I was already dead. But the rather splendid thing about your Dreamland is that death doesn’t seem to matter. Wouldn’t you say, son?’

  I splutter for a reply, until I realise he’s talking to Uri, not me.

  The two of them look at each other with a love that seems to radiate heat and slow down time.

  Uri steps forward, and Kenneth pulls him into a hug. They stay there for what feels like a long time, and I glance at Susan, who is wiping something from her eye.

  ‘We’re together forever now, son,’ says Kenneth. His hair is no longer white, but has the golden sheen of his photograph on the Dreaminator box. His deeply lined face seems to get smoother the closer he holds Uri.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ says Uri, smiling.

  Then Kenneth turns to me. ‘Use the dirk, laddie. It’s a lot easier. This is your Dreamland, remember?’

  I nod, dumbfounded.

  He faces his son again. ‘Come on, Uri, let’s go: we’re only in the way here. Wee Malky here’s got a job to do.’

  ‘Wait!’ I say. ‘Will … will I see you again?’

  Kenneth looks at me over the top of his glasses. ‘Who knows, laddie? Some pals of mine once said, “Let it be,” and it just could be, you know?’

  He holds out his hand to Uri, and the two step back behind the tree. Uri raises his hand in a shy goodbye, and then they’re gone.

  At this point, two things happen at the same time.

  One is that I slice easily through the remaining strands of rope with the dirk.

  The other is that, from a little distance away, comes a scream unlike any I have heard before.

  I twist round to look. From behind the large rock where we hid, Mola has emerged, naked, in full view of the gathering. Her arms are in the air, her feet wide apart, and she is yelling something at the top of her voice. She looks absolutely inhuman and totally terrifying and whatever she is shouting sounds like a blood-freezing war cry.

  The group circling Seb stop immediately and stare in astonishment at the wild, muddy woman now running towards them down the rocky slope.

  At the same moment, the mammoth, finally free of its tether, crashes out from the trees. Susan and I dive out of the way and it charges towards the kidnappers, honking and hooting and tossing its head furiously.

  The hunters shriek in terror as the angry mammoth thunders across the dusty ground towards its captors. The dogs have fled into the woods. With a flick of the mammoth’s vast head, a tusk sideswipes the lead man and sends him flying through the air to land in a heap a few metres away. The others turn and aim their stone-tipped spears at the bellowing animal, screaming in fright as it charges again.

  Between Mola and the mammoth, no one is paying any attention to Seb. Susan and I run round the side of the clearing towards the stake where he is secured. I hear a shout and turn my head. One of the tribesmen has spotted us and starts to run towards us, but is knocked over by a mighty swing of the mammoth’s trunk and sprawls in the dust.

  The others have surrounded the animal, and one of them throws a spear, which lodges in its neck, causing it to howl, but it doesn’t stop its rampage.

  Susan and I are behind Seb now. I don’t even have time to say hello or a
sk him how he is. Instead, I start cutting through his wrist-ties, nicking his flesh at the same time in my frenzy and – good old Seb – he doesn’t even complain, though I feel him wince. Seconds later, I’ve cut through.

  For a moment, Seb just looks at me, and time seems to stand still. We don’t speak, but we’re sort of talking with our eyes. It’s hard to explain.

  And what our eyes say is: You’re annoying, but you’re my brother.

  Then I grab Seb by one bloody hand, Susan takes the other and we start to run to the other side of the clearing.

  ‘Wait!’ says Seb, pulling us sharply to a halt. He wriggles free and runs back to where Kobi is still tied to a stake.

  ‘We haven’t got time! He’s not even real!’ I scream, but it’s no good. Seb is behind Kobi, frantically cutting through the knotted vine with Kenneth’s dirk.

  To my side, I see that Mola has picked up a discarded spear. She holds it in both hands and bares her teeth at the large, hairy man coming towards her, slowly, with a chilling confidence.

  ‘Mola! Come now!’ Susan cries.

  ‘No! Run, children, run!’ she shouts.

  The big man takes another step and swats aside the spear with a massive hand as easily as if it were a pencil. Mola is defenceless, but stands her ground as the man reaches for her throat with one hand and a stone club with the other, his teeth bared in fury.

  Kobi wriggles his hands free from his loosened bonds, smiling his thanks to Seb with a stuck-out tongue before taking the dirk and turning immediately to the one called Erin, beginning to free her in turn. Seb and I start to run, and I am trying so hard to ignore the increasing pain in my croc-bitten leg.

  Then Mola is being lifted from the ground by her throat and Susan shouts, ‘Mola!’

  At the same time, Mola shouts, ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ and the large man is left clutching at …

  Nothing.

  Before our astonished eyes, Mola has just vanished from Dreamland. There isn’t time to wonder at this, because the small crowd of Stone Age warriors have decided not to try to fight the mammoth any more, but to run.

  And they’re running in our direction.

  I’m still reeling from the disappearance of Mola before my eyes. It was like some awesome magic trick: one second she was there, the next … gone. But I can’t think about it, as Susan, Seb and I run through the trees and out on to a large open plain leading to the river and, beyond, the open sea. We have come in a wide U-shape, and our pursuers are by now a fair way behind us. Far enough, in fact, that we slow down and get our breath back.

  ‘Look!’ says Seb, pointing at a clifftop ahead of us. ‘It’s the priory, I mean … it’s the cliff where the priory will be.’

  He’s right. We’re standing exactly where Tynemouth will be, with its ruined castle and priory on the clifftop. A building that will not be built for something like nine thousand years and will be a crumbling ruin by the time I am alive. But the cliff is more or less the same. To our right is the Tyne river, to our left King Edward’s Bay and, beyond it, the Long Sands and Culvercot – all of them unnamed, at least unnamed in English. Beyond the cliff a massive grey storm is building up.

  ‘Let’s go to the cliff edge,’ I say. ‘We can climb down to the bay.’

  ‘And then what?’ says Susan.

  ‘We’ll get away,’ I say, but I already know what she’ll say next.

  ‘And then what? You have to make a decision, Malky. This is your dream, remember.’

  In the distance, our attackers are coming nearer.

  ‘I don’t understand!’ I wail. ‘I don’t know what to do!’

  ‘I’m going to wake up any minute, Malky. I can feel it. And you too: you are going to wake up naturally, and if that happens you won’t have Seb with you.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  She looks at me, pleadingly. ‘I don’t, Malky. I don’t know anything! But what I do know is that you have to let go of yourself. Let go of your self. Allow the … the universe to do its thing and just let it be.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’ I shout.

  We’re on the very edge of the cliff now, and I peer over. Yet, instead of rocks, and waves crashing on to them, it is as though the storm clouds on the horizon have swirled below me. I look up and can see no sea, no horizon – just a grey fog of emptiness and my stomach tightens.

  ‘I’m scared, Malky,’ says Seb. ‘They’re getting closer.’

  Then a man’s voice, with an accent like Mola’s, says, quietly but firmly, ‘Go to the edge of your dream, Malky. And then go further.’

  I turn away from the cliff edge and where Susan stood is now a middle-aged man in a simple suit of faded blue cotton, a number printed on his chest. His hair is straight and black and streaked with grey, and a patchy beard clings to his hollow cheeks.

  I don’t even need to ask who he is, and I have given up questioning the logic of what is happening.

  Susan’s dad.

  When he smiles, serenely, and nods in a way I have seen Susan do countless times, it is as though he can read my thoughts and approves.

  Susan runs to him, and holds his hand, beaming up at him.

  ‘What if I jump?’ I say, gazing at the grey void. ‘What will happen?’

  ‘Go to the edge, Malky,’ says Susan. ‘And then go further.’

  Then she and her dad disappear, just like that; like a light going out.

  The hunters are getting nearer; I can make out their faces now, and I know there is no way back. Seb and I are trapped on the cliff edge.

  ‘This is your dream, Malky. You have to control it,’ says Seb.

  ‘I can’t, Seb. I can’t control anything any more.’

  ‘Don’t let them catch us,’ he pleads. I’m back to being big brother, feeling responsible for him and terrified that it’s down to me.

  But that’s how it is.

  They’re much closer now – only metres away – and the one with the club has raised it in readiness for … for what?

  When I look at Seb, he just nods.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he says. ‘Let yourself go, Malky!’

  I close my eyes in fear of the blow and, when I open them, I see the Dreaminator above me. A thin morning light is coming through my curtains. It’s morning.

  No, no, no, no! I can’t wake up yet! I close my eyes again, and I’m back in my dream. The stone-club man has taken a step nearer.

  ‘You have to let go of your self,’ Susan had said.

  ‘Go to the edge of your dream, Malky. And then go further,’ her dad had added.

  I grab Seb by the wrist, feeling the slick of blood beneath my palm, and as the stone club swings at me I push off with my good leg on the edge of the cliff, pulling Seb with me backwards, into the swirling fog, with the rising sun blinding me …

  Nothingness rushes up to meet us.

  My eyes are still screwed up against the sharp sunlight.

  I open them.

  I wake up.

  The morning sunshine is slicing through a gap in the curtains, hitting my eyes, and I can make out the shape of the Dreaminator above me. If I screw my eyes shut, I’m not back on a cliff-top with a stone club swinging at me.

  I am – I definitely am – awake. I lie there, panting, and bring my hand up to my face. It’s sticky with blood. Everything comes back to me – everything. I don’t know how long I’m lying there. A minute maybe? I turn to Seb’s bed – and he isn’t there. But then I realise, Of course he isn’t there. He’s in hospital.

  Is he awake, though?

  I hope he’s awake.

  I get up. I can’t shake off the idea that I’m still dreaming. Is this another dream-in-a-dream? I check the bathroom: no Kenneth McKinley in the bath. I go to wash the blood off my hands, then check the bathroom door in case a crocodile comes through.

  I grab a toothpaste tube and read the words: Extra Freshness! I dash back to my room to check the clock: 06:30.

  The words, the numbers, are all clear. I am no
t dreaming. ‘Float!’ I say. I don’t float.

  I am not dreaming. My leg is aching, my arm is crusted with dried blood, but I’m definitely not dreaming.

  Something smells odd, though. I look up at the old, original Dreaminator. It is still there, but blackened, smouldering, thin wisps of smoke curling up from the singed feathers, the fine gold threads burned to nothing – a ruin.

  I’m relieved in a way. But then I think … what if I have to go back? What if I’ve killed Seb? All the negatives start circling in my head. Without the Dreaminator, what happens if …?

  My swirling thoughts are cut off by my phone ringing on the bedside table. The caller ID says it’s Mam.

  I hardly dare pick up the phone. I’m in a daze, and later I will find it hard to recall this moment, but for now I put the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘He’s back,’ says Mam, and then she starts laughing and crying at the same time. I know how she feels.

  ‘He’s back! Mormor! Uncle Pete! He’s back – Seb’s awake!’

  The next ten minutes are the happiest chaos I have ever known, with Mormor crying tears of relief and Uncle Pete running up and down the stairs, and Fit Billy ringing on the doorbell because he’s heard the commotion through the walls, then dashing over the road to tell Lynn and Tony, who come over in their dressing gowns and slippers …

  And then I’m sitting in the back of Uncle Pete’s car, heading to the hospital. It’s early and Tynemouth is quiet; the Beckers’ funeral parlour looks as though nothing at all happened there last night. As we drive past, I keep my head down when I see Kez’s dad coming out of the side lane with Dennis on a lead.

  ‘Inte så fort, Peter!’ says Mormor who reverts to her native Swedish when she’s anxious. ‘Not so fast!’

  ‘Ja, ja, Mama!’ he laughs in response, and speeds up slightly, making her tut.

  My phone is in my hand as we zoom up the near-empty A19 to Cramlington Hospital. I’m just about to call Susan when it buzzes in my hand, making me jump.