Dreaming Again

by Jack Dann

  ‘What will we do?’ I asked, close to Hansel’s ear.

  ‘I have a plan,’ he said as our apartment tower disappeared. From the inside pocket of his windcheater he pulled a packet of Winfield cigarettes. ‘I stole these from Father this morning.’

  ‘What use are they to us?’

  He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to leave a trail, to lead us back home.’

  He shifted over closer to the side of the tray and began to drop cigarettes, one after the other, along the route through the city. They were brightly white against the grubby streets, and I cautiously shed my anxiety. Those pale cylinders would lead us home. Home was not a happy place, but it was better than being exposed in the city. Dark shadows stalked the city streets, shadows with names like Violence and Winter and Disease. But their king was Hunger.

  We were leaving the new city behind now, with its rigidly planned structures of unpainted concrete, bristling with plastic and iron vegetation. As we wound down into the valley of the old city, the streets grew so narrow that the thin, black buildings seemed to bend towards each other in aggressive challenge. The smell was bitter: damp rot and garbage and decades-old car fumes trapped in tight alleys. Underlying it all was the ceaseless aroma of dead things, for many things died in the city. I presumed Mother and Father expected us to die, and while this horrified me, it didn’t surprise me. The instinct to destroy the young was always latent in their generation; it simply became more pronounced when we were all competing for food.

  Spirals within spirals, demented alleys; the ute finally came to a halt in a space so tight that Father simply couldn’t drive any further.

  He got out, opened the back of the tray. ‘Here you are, kids.’ He handed us a rusty coin each, just enough to buy a bread roll. ‘I’ll pick you up in the same place at nightfall.’

  This was a lie, and all three of us knew it, but nobody spoke it.

  Hansel and I stood in the mouldy alley and watched Father’s ute back out into the street. One of the headlights was bent, shining at an odd angle against lichen-splattered brick. The engine spewed blue smoke as Father turned, revved, and drove away.

  The swirling olive-tinged clouds were thick and sludgy above us, and the tall buildings created cold shadows. An unnatural lightlessness pervaded, as though it were about to pour with rain any moment; but rain rarely came to Stonewold despite the perpetual cloud cover. Miserable drizzle sometimes, or weeks and weeks of unbearably chill humidity. Never a thundering downpour to wash the streets clean.

  ‘What now?’ I said to Hansel.

  He shrugged. ‘I guess we follow the trail.’

  We walked to the next block, where the first cigarette lay waiting for us. Hansel picked it up, brushing at a grey stain on the white paper. He straightened, scanned for the next, and on we went. We passed boarded-up shops, their faded signs streaked with water stains and bird droppings; we passed a concrete children’s playground, with a toppled-over climbing frame and an odour of cat urine lingering in the sand pit; we passed an empty car yard where aluminium cans and fast food wrappers clung to the chain wire fence and six bent hubcaps were propped up against the shopfront. Behind the clouds, the sun had risen and so the traffic started. We risked our lives at intersections where road rules had long since been abandoned. We passed rows of black apartment blocks. Most of their windows were shut against the smell and the ugliness of the city, but one stood open, Led Zeppelin’s ‘Kashmir’ spurting at deafening volume onto the street. The song followed us for two more blocks, a steam train on heavy rails.

  Then the cigarettes ran out.

  ‘Shit,’ Hansel said, after a long search.

  I tried not to panic. A cold wind had risen, and Hansel wondered aloud if the cigarettes had simply blown away. Then an old tramp with a brown coat came past us, walking in the other direction, a crisp Winfield cigarette between his lips.

  ‘Hey, grandad!’ Hansel said, grasping the old tramp’s arm. ‘Where did you get that?’

  The tramp grinned, pulled a handful of cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘Summun lift’em on the stritt.’

  Hansel rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘Did you pick them all up?’

  ‘Inny I could see. You want ‘un?’

  Hansel took the cigarette offered to him, leaned in to light it from the tramp’s cigarette. He angled his head slightly as though he intended to kiss the old man. I admired the soft line of his jaw.

  ‘Iss a good day,’ the tramp said to me, laughing softly.

  ‘It is?’ I said impatiently, too caught up in my own suffering for kindness.

  ‘Allays a good ‘un when you git smokes fer nuppin’.’ He winked, waved and shuffled off.

  Hansel blew out a stream of smoke. Shrugged. ‘We’re fucked now.’

  ‘Maybe we can find our way back anyway.’ I glanced around, trying to squeeze familiarity out of the surroundings. ‘I think we came under that arch.’

  ‘I don’t remember it.’ His eyes went skyward. ‘It’s strange here in the old city, without the tram cables. Feels like we’re not in a cage for once.’

  I followed his gaze, cheering myself. The edge of a feeling tickled me, a feeling like liberty.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right. Under the arch.’

  Gradually, we grew dizzy. The streets of Stonewold seemed designed to confuse. Landmarks repeated, causing the cold anxiety that we were retracing our steps. When our legs ached we knew we were heading slowly upwards, and so were going in the right direction. When they didn’t ache we were relieved of discomfort, but knew we were losing ourselves. The day progressed; I grew hungry. I swallowed three times for every hunger pain, as we had been taught in school. It didn’t work. It never worked, but it was better than doing nothing. We talked about spending our money on bread, but decided to save it: insurance against things getting worse. Those who are schooled in privation can always imagine worse privation; bad luck only takes the wealthy by surprise. Hansel clutched my hand, dragging me hither and thither, deeper and deeper into the maze of the city. The streets were too narrow for traffic. The noise withdrew through black alleys. I was nearly ready to admit that we had no hope of finding home again.

  That was when I saw the white bird.

  ‘Hansel, look!’ It was the strangest bird I’d seen. I was used to the dull brown sparrows of Stonewold, small and dirty. This bird was snowy white, with a long, elegant tail, an azure crest on his head, and proud black eyes. Most unusually, it was mechanical, made of springs and screws. It sat on the sign of an empty shop cleaning its metal feathers.

  Hansel stopped and turned, his eyes following the direction I was pointing. He smiled, approached and held up his hand. ‘Hello. Where are you from?’

  The bird raised his crest and spoke, clicking his tongue in his beak. ‘The forest.’

  Hansel and I exchanged desperate glances. The forest? Now the bird spread his snowy wings and swooped into the air. He stayed low, heading down an alley. Without a word between us, Hansel and I began to run, following the bird, splashing through mud and nearly slipping on the algaed bitumen. The way home was abandoned behind us along with daylight, which was closed out by narrower and narrower spaces. Finally, the bird burst through the other side of the black alley. A half-demolished building lay to our left, a group of shops to our right. Ahead of us was a shining mirror, twenty feet tall and easily as wide, embedded in a grey wall. The bird arrowed towards it, its reflection growing larger all the time. We could see ourselves in pursuit. The mirror drew close; we pulled up, the bird didn’t. It speared into the mirror. A ripple of light flashed behind it. The cityscape in the mirror disappeared. In its place was a forest.

  I choked on my own breath. Ran forward, puzzled to see my own reflection hovering ghost-like among the verdant shadows. Hansel was beside me a moment later, hands pounding on the mirror.

  The bird sat on a branch and made a noise almost like laughter. Only now it wasn’t mechanical, but a real bird of feathers and fine bone
s.

  ‘How do we get in?’ Hansel shouted.

  ‘We all go empty-handed into the unknown!’ the bird squawked, then took to the sky and disappeared.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ I murmured as I gazed at the forest. Drooping larch cast its hanging shadows over sunlit rocks. Long, soft grass rippled in the breeze. A narrow stream curled its way through the trees, and suddenly I was desperately thirsty. All around me were the smells of water gone bad: stagnant, mouldering. I wanted more than anything to bend at the side of that sweet stream and drink.

  Hansel had picked up a half-brick from the demolished building and threw it hard against the mirror. The brick bounced back, hitting him in the shoulder. The mirror didn’t crack. He staggered, swearing in frustration.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

  Hansel and I turned. Outside one of the shops was a woman, around the same age as our parents. She was well-dressed and tidy, with shining chestnut hair and thick spectacles. The sign over her head said, Sweet Shop. My mouth began to water.

  ‘Why not?’ Hansel demanded. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘It’s a trick of the imagination, that’s all. There is no forest. Just a mirror. Look.’

  We looked. The forest was gone. The reflection of the dark city gazed back at us.

  ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘breaking a mirror is seven years’ bad luck.’ She smiled. ‘Would you like to come in?’ She stood aside, nudging open the door of the shop.

  Hansel and I stumbled over our feet in our hurry to accept her invitation.

  Inside the sweet shop, the air was warm and heavy with the aroma of baking biscuits. The walls were painted black, which contrasted strongly with the coloured sweets: reds and pinks and greens and bright yellows. Strings of gingerbread hung like streamers from the ceiling; barrels of butterscotch, jelly shapes, powdered Turkish delight and other treats waited in every corner; and a little fountain of chocolate stood in the middle of it all, bubbling over neatly stacked pink marshmallows. I forgot myself. It wasn’t the sweets that aroused this fissure in the meaning of things; it was the concept of plenty. In all my life, I had never seen plenty before.

  The woman sat on a stool by the counter and crossed her stockinged legs neatly. ‘Help yourselves.’

  ‘We can’t afford to pay for this,’ I said, blinking back into cognisance.

  She waved my concern away with a flick of her beautifully manicured hand. ‘Oh, never mind. You look hungry.’

  Hansel had no hesitations. He was already stuffing gingerbread into his mouth.

  ‘I need to tell you something, though,’ the woman said. ‘I do prefer to be up-front about these things. I’m a witch.’

  Hansel laughed, spraying crumbs from his mouth. He didn’t believe in witches.

  I was less sure. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, tentatively nibbling some peanut brittle.

  ‘I’m a witch. Magic spells and so on. I control all the rats in this part of the city.’ She clapped her hands together and out of the shadowy corners advanced a dozen rats. They gathered at the bottom of her stool and waited, patient as newly trained puppies. Even the rats couldn’t turn me off the food which, now it had hit my stomach, had aroused ravenous hunger. I finished a slab of peanut brittle and went for a strap of raspberry licorice.

  ‘Are you going to put spells on us?’ Hansel asked.

  ‘Heavens, no. There’s no need for that.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ he said, reaching his hand into a barrel of jelly snakes.

  ‘Stay a while,’ the witch said, wistfully blinking her pale eyes behind the thick spectacles. ‘As long as you like. Eat what you like. I’m going to sit here and count my money.’

  She popped open the cash register and pulled out handfuls of gold coins, which she began to count and stack, humming softly to herself. The big enamel stove ticked softly, warming the space. I had to admit that she seemed very friendly and kind for a witch, and I relaxed and filled my stomach with sweet delights. Afterwards, she made us thick hot chocolate to drink, and then the evening was approaching so she insisted we stay a while, that there would be crumpets and marmalade for breakfast and, as long as we didn’t mind the rats, we were welcome to sleep in the spare bedroom.

  I had reservations, I do remember that. My stomach was full, we might have been on our way. But what reservations can stand up to abundance? In the morning, there would be more, and more was what I wanted.

  Our beds were side by side, under a window with a white blind. Hansel held my hand for a long time, but eventually sleep caught him and he let me go and turned on his side. As I drifted off, I listened to the sound of the rats skittering around under our beds, and the clink of the witch, counting her gold coins by the thin electric light.

  III.

  ‘Did I forget to mention that I eat children?’

  I opened my eyes. The witch was leaning on my bed, dressed in a tidy beige suit. One of the lenses of her spectacles was cracked, the other missing completely.

  Confusion arrested me. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I eat children.’ She smiled. ‘So much for wanting to be young forever, eh?’ She stood and walked away.

  I checked Hansel’s bed. He was gone. I leapt up and made to run after her, but beneath my feet a swarm of rats began to move. Warm, scratching bodies. I lost my footing, I fell. A rat squealed. I began to shout. ‘What do you mean? Where’s my brother?’

  Her voice was calm, drifting from within the sweet shop. ‘Well, come and see.’

  I kicked rats out of my way. One bit my bare toe, but I hardly felt it. My heart seemed to have grown too large for my chest, it sat on my lungs. The chocolate fountain had been cleared away from the centre of the sweet shop. In its place was a silver cage. And in the cage was Hansel.

  I approached, limbs shaking. His knuckles were bloody, a graze adorned his temple. He looked up at me with sulky eyes. ‘The bitch caught me.’

  I reached for the bars. The moment I touched them, a sweet melody began to play, a pearly, disembodied voice gathering in the dark arch of the room:

  I swear by the sour, I swear by the sweet,

  Someone is trying to steal your meat.

  The witch strode over and knocked my hands off the cage with a thick candy cane. ‘Don’t touch,’ she said. ‘Or I shall know, and you will end up in there with him.’

  I realised she was having trouble focusing on me, and I glanced at the floor of the cage. Shards of broken glass. Hansel had broken her spectacles trying to get away from her.

  She blinked rapidly. ‘I can’t see well enough to go to the grocery store for turnips,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to go.’

  ‘Turnips?’

  ‘For my boy-roast. One must have vegetables with meat. Too much meat by itself is bad for one’s colon.’

  I was speechless. The witch carefully pulled a handful of coins out of her pocket. Peering closely, she fingered them one by one until she landed on the right denomination. She held it out to me. ‘Here. The grocery store is two blocks west. The rats will show you.’ Then she smiled. ‘And if you try to run, the rats will tell me and I will cut Hansel up bit by bit. I will have boy-fondue instead of boy-roast. I will invite all my witchy friends over and we will listen to Carole King and talk about how good life used to be. Understand?’

  I nodded, felt the sweat forming around the coin in my palm. At least going to the grocery store would give me time to think of a plan to free Hansel.

  She gave me a little push towards the door. Scurrying feet followed me: two rats, close at my heels.

  The first thing I saw, as I emerged into grey daylight, was the giant mirror. There was no forest in it, no white bird. Only miles of concrete structures, strangling out the day. Gloomy clouds crowded down on me; I hesitated, straining to see the sunlit stream again.

  ‘There is no forest,’ one of the rats said, in a soft voice.

  I looked down. ‘I saw the forest.’

  ‘Don’t talk to it,’ hissed the
other rat. ‘The witch just wants turnips.’

  ‘A friend of mine thought to get through to the forest,’ the first rat said.

  ‘A friend?… A rat friend?’ I had never heard a rat speak before.

  ‘Yes. He stole a gold coin from the witch, and came here and slammed himself up against the mirror until he brained himself. You see his bones there.’

  I moved towards the mirror, and stooped to pick up a rat bone. Perhaps from a hind leg. I put it in my pocket.

  ‘Hurry, hurry,’ said the second rat.

  ‘Do you like the witch?’ I asked.

  ‘Nobody likes witches,’ said the second rat.

  ‘But she gives us lots of things,’ said the first rat. ‘Sweetmeats and so on. If we stay loyal to her, she gives us one coin every five years.’

  ‘And if we are disloyal,’ said the second rat in an urgent voice, ‘she boils us up in a pot. Let’s hurry.’

  I returned to the witch with a turnip twenty minutes later, and she declared she would cook Hansel that very afternoon. Then she retired to count her money, and I sat next to the cage — careful not to touch the bars — to keep Hansel company.

  I had never lost anything as precious as Hansel. I cried and my tears fell onto my hands.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get out of this.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘When she opens the cage, I’ll overpower her.’

  I didn’t point out that he hadn’t managed to overpower her when she’d put him in the cage.

  ‘Then we’ll run to the mirror and escape into the forest.’

  ‘It’s not there any more.’

  ‘It might come back.’

  I pulled the rat bone out of my pocket and handed it to him through the bars. ‘Nobody gets through the mirror.’

  He turned the bone over in his hands. ‘That bird did,’ he said, but he sounded less certain now,

  ‘That witch has so much,’ I said. ‘She has gold coins, and more sweets than she could ever eat. Why must she eat you as well?’ I shivered, thinking about my own fate. ‘Why must she eat both of us?’