by Helen Harper
‘You won’t hurt him, will you?’ I ask nervously.
Her tongue darts out, swooping round her mouth. ‘Not unless he enjoys that kind of thing.’ Then, before I can add any caveats, she lifts her arms up and vanishes, leaving nothing but a sense of ice hanging in the dead molecules in front of me.
‘You’d better hope you’ve done the right thing, Zoe,’ I mutter to myself, passing a hand in front of my eyes. ‘And stop bloody talking to yourself. You’re crazy enough as it is.’
Chapter Eighteen
Terror made me cruel.
Emily Bronte
Because I don’t know exactly where Dante is, I’m forced to skulk round to the Badlands like a guilty spouse wandering home at three o’clock in the morning with whisky on their breath and a love bite on their neck. The Dreamlands streets are still quiet, and I make it across the bank of sweet-smelling flowers without being noticed.
I gaze with foreboding into the gloomy, cloud of dark smoke. No wonder almost all the buildings in the town look as if they’re hundreds of years old. Standing here, less than a metre away from the Badlands border, I feel like I’m about to plunge into some Victorian dystopia, replete with pea-souper smog, Dickensian characters and Jack the Ripper. Knowing what I do, I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s what I’m confronted with. It certainly smells bad enough.
I clench and unclench my fists, hopping from one foot to another as my adrenaline builds. One step inside and I could be a dead woman. Even if I get out alive, Dante will probably gut me from head to toe for making such a foolish move. Whether I’m putting my life in danger or not, though, I have to do this. I can’t consign all those people in the real world to more nights of terrifying dreams, sleep paralysis and assaults, whether they are real or otherwise. But I wish I’d taken the time to leave a note. If something goes wrong, Dante will have Rawlins’ glowering face to deal with. No doubt she’ll blame it all on him and he’ll blame it all on her.
A ghost of a smile crosses my face. I have to make it back if only to prevent the two of them from scowling each other to death.
I bounce back on my heels. I’m afraid but I’m not panicking. I can do this.
‘Ninja Zoe,’ I whisper. I snap off a salute though it’s far sloppier than the one that Powers gave me when I was in his dream. Then I stop thinking, hold my breath and plunge ahead.
The smoke sears my skin and my vision is totally obscured. The ground beneath my feet feels solid so I stride forward, hoping I won’t bang into anything. I cover my eyes with my arm. When my lungs begin to burn, I exhale and gulp in the foul air – and immediately start choking and spluttering. I do what I can to muffle the sound. I have no desire to bring a thousand cloudy monsters, dragons and goodness knows what else down upon my head but my chest is spasming and it’s virtually impossible. No wonder curious teenagers, who often land themselves in trouble in the rest of the Dreamlands, never come here.
Working on the premise that smoke rises, I fall to my hands and knees and crawl forward. The sulphurous cloud has to end somewhere, if only because it’ll kill me if it doesn’t. I push my body forward as fast as I can. The ground is smooth under my palms but it’s also hot; I try to limit the time I’m touching it but I’m certain that blisters are already forming. Even with my eyes squeezed shut, painful tears are welling up and leaking out. I can’t breathe and I can’t see. My progress is growing slower and slower. I’ve really screwed up, I think dully. I should have done more to prepare. I’ve never been a gung-ho, look-before-you-leap kind of person so why I did I start now? This is going to be my undoing. Despair nudges at me.
I breathe once more, as shallowly as I dare. My lungs are on fire and, as my arms give way, I fall and hit my cheek on the hot earth. With a squeal of pain, I yank myself back up. This is too much.
Dreamweaver. The word trickles through my skull, echoing round my mind. I’m supposed to be able control this world.
I collapse, rolling onto my back and drawing myself into a foetal position. I’m shivering uncontrollably, not from cold so it must be something else. It doesn’t matter though. Less than ten metres in and I’m already done for.
I clasp my hands together and imagine a ball of air, pure and crisp and cold, like a bubble in my palms. I raise it to my mouth and suck in a breath. Ice hits my lungs and expands with the smoke that’s already there. I try again. Please make it not so cold this time. I cup my hands and breathe once more and the frigid air travels down my windpipe. I need more. I picture it in my head. It’s no longer a bubble in my hands, it’s a bubble all around me. What do they call it? I struggle to retrieve the word. My head is an incoherent mess. I can’t think straight.
I raise a heavy hand and pinch the flesh of my forearm: pain to banish pain. For a moment it works and my thoughts clear, before slipping out of my grasp again. I pinch harder. This time, I use my time more wisely and focus hard. A large bubble. Pure air, all for me, surrounding my body, giving me a cushion between the harsh, hot smoke and my vulnerable human state.
I blink. My skin feels strange. I rub my fingertips uneasily over my arms and realise what’s wrong. Goosebumps.
For the first time since I stepped inside the Badlands, I open one eye. My vision is still swimming from the tears but it’s not painful so I open the other one. I gaze around me. It worked. I created a bubble of my own. I laugh aloud, although the sound is more of a wheeze. I created this. I stretch my arms out and my fingertips brush its edges.
I force it outwards, expanding it until I have metres to work with. Then I grin. Zorbing, that’s what it’s called. A giant plastic hamster ball in which thrill seekers bounce down hillsides. I’m doing exactly the same thing, except I’m using it to walk across a plain of dark nightmares.
I push out with my hands, take an experimental step and my air bubble moves with me. I wrap it around me so it’s as much a part of me as my hair and my nails, then I start to relax. Watch me dreamweave, world.
All of a sudden, the silence is broken by a sharp noise. I look to my left, trying to pierce the smoky gloom beyond my imaginary zorb. The noise continues: clapping. Someone is clapping.
A moment later, a face appears. It’s not the boyish young blue-haired version, it’s not the wizened creepy older version; this is some monstrous vision from hell. It towers above me. Vast wings spread out from its back, its chest is broad and covered in thick wiry hairs and its thighs are as wide as tree trunks. I’m forced to crane my neck upwards to see its face. Only the bright lapis-lazuli eyes that gleam at me from the smoke tell me who I’m facing.
I stand my ground. ‘You know,’ I say, amazed that I can speak, ‘size isn’t everything.’
The Sandman booms a laugh. He stretches out a long finger and pokes the air surrounding me before withdrawing his hand. ‘A bubble,’ he muses. ‘Clever, but it won’t save you.’
‘This is my bubble,’ I tell him. ‘The Bubble in the town is also mine. You will leave it alone.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll destroy you.’
He circles me. ‘You’re in my territory now,’ he says. ‘I’m the one with the power.’
I smile. ‘Oh yeah?’
I glance down at my hands. I wasn’t wrong about the blisters: pus-filled lumps cover my skin. If I can control the damn Dreamlands, I can control my own body so I will them away. My fingertips tingle but the damn blisters remain. So much for that. Still, even if I can’t heal myself, there is one thing I can do.
I gaze down at my empty palms, looking past the sores and using my imagination. Light fills me, stretching to the very soles of my feet. The power fills me with confidence. I picture a sword, lightweight and long, with a lethal sharp blade. It flashes into existence and I swing it round my head experimentally. Nice.
I glance up. The Sandman is watching me. ‘So,’ he says, ‘you’ve learnt a few tricks. It’s not enough. You can’t even begin to conceive how long I’ve been around. The knowledge I possess in my little finger is greater than ever
ything you hold in your head. Give in now or suffer the consequences.’
I swipe a figure of eight in the air with the sword. Then, using whatever element of surprise I can, I thrust it forward, aiming high. He hisses.
Unfortunately for me, the blade barely skims his torso. He hawks up a huge gob of phlegm and spits it noisily on the ground. ‘I guess you’ve made your choice,’ he snarls.
‘I guess so,’ I reply.
He leans back his head and howls, an eerie sound which seems to travel for miles. I batten down the urge to cover my ears. ‘Watch this,’ he smirks.
From out of nowhere, dozens of creatures appear – they must have been hanging around in the thick dark smoke of the Badlands, waiting for the Sandman’s call before they showed themselves. I spot many of the monsters I’ve already encountered, from cute imps to dark-robed men and hard-faced women.
There are so many of them that it cannot be a coincidence. I’ve not collided with any of them. I realise I’ve been given a free passage to this point. Now the Sandman wants this fight. I try to look on the bright side: I can still only see one dragon.
The denizens of the Badlands form a circle around us, about a metre away from my air bubble. I’m not sure whether it’s because they think it’ll hurt them or whether they simply want to keep out of the way of what’s about to happen. I can only make out the first few rows from the smoke which surrounds them. I’m pretty certain there are a lot more of them who remain invisible to my weak human eyes.
‘You brought your buddies along,’ I say. ‘How sweet.’
The Sandman bares his teeth. ‘It’s been a while since any of us have tasted the blood of a dreamweaver.’ He smacks his lips. ‘It’s particularly sweet.’
I’m getting bored with the chatter. He’s like a sportsman using unsportsmanlike behaviour, taunting me to throw me off my game. I block out the terrifying images of our audience and focus. I achieved some success against the dragon by finding the chink in its armour; if I can do the same with the Sandman, I’ll win, unlikely as that outcome seems right now.
His wings, I decide. They’re as good a place to start as any.
I lunge forward again. It’s more of a feint than an attempt to injure him. It gives me the chance I need to twist round so I’m facing the Sandman’s back. I jab upwards before he can turn and face me. The sword slices into his left wing and several feathers drift downwards; otherwise my action has little effect.
He roars and kicks, a spinning action that comes at me in such a blur that I have no option but to dive onto the searing ground. I slide my foot forward and scramble up once more. Missed. Ha! Then he catches me on the side of my head with a dizzying blow and I go flying. I catch sight of a cluster of strange ogre-type beasts stepping backwards as I slam down with a heavy thump. I try to get back up again but my senses are swimming. Lights dance in front of my eyes and, even though I try to shake them off, they seem determined to remain.
I roll over and over then strike out again, catching the Sandman on his ankle. The blow doesn’t notch his Achilles tendon but his abrupt exhalation of air tells me I’ve caused some damage. The knowledge emboldens and, using the adrenaline flooding my system, I drag myself to my feet once more.
Rather than be obvious about hitting his wings, I sidestep and aim at them from an angle. This time a chunk of feathers floats down but before I can bathe in my success, he lets out a bellow and slams his head downwards. I freeze and only just manage to lift the blade to block his head butt in time. The sword glances off his forehead, causing another shallow cut. This time it’s located perfectly: blood drips down, edging towards his eyes. He wipes it off but he doesn’t do a good enough job.
I edge left, then right, waiting for the next time I need to defend myself and for the blood to do what I need it to. The second that he blinks when it trickles onto his eyelashes, I make another move.
Leaping to the side where he’ll least expect it, I thrust again. I have enough momentum to strike hard. The blade slices into his wing and the Sandman screams. I pull back to regroup but he’s no longer playing.
He flicks his fingers and points at the sword. ‘I grow tired of your needle, weaver.’
I start to smile but my mirth disappears when the weapon almost drops from my grasp. What was a light, easy-to-wield sword is now cumbersome – it feels like it weighs half a ton. I struggle to keep a hold of it as it start to slip from my sweaty grasp. I stare at it, willing it back to its original weight. I feel it jerk but nothing changes. Oh shit.
The Sandman’s huge arm curls round and swings through the air. I try to duck but this time he’s moving too fast. He grabs a hank of my hair and pulls me up. The pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt before; it’s as if my scalp is being ripped off.
I desperately try to lift the sword but it’s no good; whatever he’s done to it, it’s beyond my ability to change it. As he raises me up and I swing the blade uselessly, I think that this is it. This is how it’s going to end; not trapped in my own home or because the Department has got me. No: I’m going to die at the hands of a character from a children’s story.
The sword drops and, for the briefest moment, he hesitates. His hold on my hair loosens enough for the pain to ease slightly. I kick out and he lets go. He’s still holding a chunk of my hair; the trouble is that it’s no longer attached to my head.
I cast around, searching for the sword. The Sandman may have rendered it all but useless but it’s all I’ve got. I know that I don’t have the energy to conjure myself another one so I’m stuck with what I’ve got. Except I don’t have it.
My foot kicks something and I pause. That didn’t feel like the sword.
The Sandman comes in for another punch. I lurch away and scoop up the object. As soon as it’s in my hands, I realise what it is. It’s not a weapon; it’s his bag of dream sand. The sword must have sliced its cord and made it fall.
I’m about to discard the bag when I remember his reaction. I look up. That’s when I realise the last punch wasn’t aimed at me – he was trying to get the bag back. He gives me a long look as I glance from the bag to him and back again.
I reach inside and take out a handful of sand. It’s finer than I expected. The Sandman watches me warily. The sand is supposed to be for rubbing in the eyes of children. I’m pretty certain that even Ninja Zoe can’t leap up high enough to throw a grain into the Sandman’s eyes.
He steps towards me. Shit. Whatever I do, I’m going to have to do it quickly. I pull out my hand from the bag, holding as much sand as I can, and run at him. I slam into his left thigh and fling my arm upwards. I’m not aiming for his face; instead I rub the sand as hard as I can into the first scratch I made in his belly.
He howls and staggers backwards. I finally spy the sword and run for it, grabbing its hilt. It’s still heavy but I’m determined not to let go of it. I scowl at it, willing it to change, and I’m so surprised when it does that it flies up in the air, far higher than I intended. I just manage to keep hold of it.
I swing to the side and, as the tip of the blade arcs back down, I swipe it in the opposite direction. It cuts into the edge of the Sandman’s wing once more and his body jerks backwards. Then he’s falling as his knees buckle underneath him. I use the flat of the blade to aid his descent and, as his head crashes finally down, I twist it so the tip is pointed directly at his jugular.
‘You got lucky,’ he croaks.
Yeah, I’ll give him that. I drop my gaze to his hand and realise he’s still holding the hank of my hair. I gingerly touch my scalp and wince. It really bloody hurts.
‘Why?’ I demand. ‘Why attack the Bubble? Why send out the monsters and cause so much suffering?’
The creatures on all sides press in but I don’t take my eyes off the Sandman. I edge forward so that the point of the blade is embedded further into his throat. They hiss and snarl but they don’t advance any further.
‘I already told you why,’ he sneers.
‘No, you didn’t.’
His body shimmers and the broken wings behind his back melt away. I’m no longer confronted by the fierce monster; now it’s the small blue-haired boy. A trickle of blood appears on his neck and he gasps.
‘Do you really think that I’m stupid?’ I ask. ‘I’m not going to let you go just because you look like a kid. I know what really lurks in your heart.’
‘Do you?’
I steel myself against his childish voice. ‘Of course I do! Torturing kids. Forcing people to go crazy. Assaults. Monsters. There’s no end to what you’re capable of.’
‘Ask me again.’
‘Huh?’
He blinks slowly. ‘Ask me your question again.’
I draw in a breath. ‘Why attack the Bubble?’
He licks his lips. Blood bubbles up at his mouth. ‘You.’
‘Bullshit.’
The Sandman’s head drops back as if it’s too much effort to hold it up. I adjust my grip on the sword’s hilt in case he tries anything. ‘It was only a matter of time,’ he whispers, ‘before you came calling. Every dreamweaver does.’
I frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Power. You become giddy with your own power. You start to crave more. You look around. Soon the Dreamlands aren’t enough. The doors to a million minds aren’t enough. You look to us.’
I gaze at him with scepticism. ‘So you’re trying to say that all this is just a pre-emptive strike? Against me?’
‘Evil doesn’t come from our world, it comes from yours. We exist because of you.’
‘Fuck you.’
He chokes out a laugh. ‘It’s true.’ He waves an arm around. ‘Look around you. These aren’t the stuff of nightmares.’
‘Imps? Dragons? Rapists?’ My voice is rising. ‘If these aren’t nightmares then what are they?’
‘Terrors.’
My lip curls. ‘What’s the difference?’
‘Nightmares are necessary. That’s why the mares run freely in the Dreamlands. Your people need nightmares to work through their day-to-day problems. Nightmares will point you towards problems you might not have realised you have. They’re as essential as dreams in solving the mess that goes on in your heads. Terrors, however, are because of the mess you create.’ He sniffs. ‘It’s far more complicated than you could ever hope to come to terms with.’
