by E. A. Owell
‘Ready to go?’ asked Mr Breakleg, but, clearly, the question was purely rhetorical.
They set out down the main aisle of the Library. Eliza couldn’t bear the silence, which only made her more nervous, and finally broke it.
‘How is the investigation going, sir?’
‘We’re moving ahead. Perhaps, not as fast as we’d like, and yet we are making progress. Today we might take another step forward. Hopefully.’
‘What do you need the description of the nightmare for?’
‘We’ve been collecting the desciptions for a while now. But the difficult thing is to distinguish between regular occasional nightmares that happen every now and then and this chain of horrible dreams that has started out recently. That’s why we need as much information as we can about people’s dreams so that we could pinpoint the problem or maybe see some pattern, if there is one.’
‘Do you think there is?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do. It seems like it is one and the same nightmare that people see over and over again. We’ll see what you have to say, and that will likely show us the direction in which we should proceed with the investigation.’
‘But, sir… if people can retell their nightmares, doesn’t it mean that the nightmares remain on canvases?’ A sudden thought struck Eliza.
‘They do. But the thing is the canvases are taken out if they have a still dream remaining on them, and we don’t know which ones had nightmares on them and which ones didn’t because they are taken out by different people, and seeing an occasional nightmare is no strange thing.’
‘But they must store them somewhere where you could examine them?’
‘Alas, canvases with nightmares are destroyed, unlike other paintings. And, apparently, the nightmares were painted in different sections and rooms of the Gallery, which makes it all more complicated.’
Now Eliza could see why the situation was indeed far from clear and simple. In the meantime, she and Mr Breakleg entered the white hall with stairs in the Council of Human Affairs.
‘We have checked all the Artists that work in the Gallery with the Truth Crier—’
‘The what?’ Eliza heard the name for the first time.
‘The Truth Crier. It’s a unique type of bird that cries out when truth is told. When people tell lies it remains silent. It might get a bit noisy when you’re interrogating someone who gives honest answers, but those birds help us a lot in our job,’ explained Mr Breakleg.
Eliza’s curiosity went spinning, making her wish badly to see one of these fantastic creatures, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
‘So, we’ve checked all the Artists and none of them seems to be guilty. Mrs Cornish was against these measures, saying she could fully vouch for every single one of her Artists, but in such situations people can’t always be objective. She eventually agreed, of course, but it wasn’t easy.’
Eliza immediately remembered the scene she had witnessed in the Gallery when Mrs Cornish had argued with the man called Harry. She could kind of begin to understand the Artist now.
As she thought it, they entered the Fixing Department.
‘The Cemetery of Buried Fears reported that quite a lot of fears had dug themselves up recently. And they’re all characterised as fears of unknown, of darkness, of creatures with inhuman traits, and of restricted space.’
They walked along the rows of wooden tables of the most diverse shapes that were occupied by the Fixers of the Fixing Department, made a couple of turns and, before Eliza could ask what the Cemetery of Buried Fears was, ended up in the same room where Phil had been interrogated last year.
‘Hello, Eliza.’
‘Hello, Mrs Cornish. I’m glad to see you,’ said Eliza, and it was absolutely true because a familiar face in this room was a good moral support for her.
Eliza sat next to Mrs Cornish. Mr Breakleg took a chair slightly to Eliza’s left, facing her. Next to the Head Fixer, right in front of Eliza, there was an easel with a canvas on it and behind it was none other than the man by the name of Harry who had had a row with Mrs Cornish in the Gallery.
Eliza was surprised to see him and yet somewhat pleased at the same time – another familiar face.
‘Well, Eliza, now we would like to ask you to describe the nightmare that you have been seeing lately. We understand it may not be easy, but the more details we get down the better,’ said Mr Breakleg.
Eliza nodded… and slowly started to tell about the nightmare with the black shape that had haunted her. As she spoke, Harry the Artist started painting something on the canvas, but Eliza couldn’t see it because she was facing the back of it.
The words didn’t always leave Eliza’s mouth easily, for the more she talked about the nightmare the more vivid it was becoming again in her mind. She felt Mrs Cornish’s hand take her hand at some point and that gave her the strength to push through the retelling till the very end.
‘You did well,’ whispered Mrs Cornish to Eliza when she had finished speaking. Eliza breathed in deeply, relieved that her part of speaking was over.
Harry behind the canvas did a couple more strokes and then stopped, too. He gave it an evaluating glance and turned it around for everyone to see.
Eliza was struck, and horrified, by how exact Harry’s painting was. She was looking at her nightmare. Although there were things that differed from her dream, it still was incredible that he managed to get it so well following nothing but her words.
By the looks on Mrs Cornish and Mr Breakleg's faces, Eliza could tell it wasn’t the first time they laid their eyes on this image. Other people’s accounts must have created similar pictures.
‘Well, it seems like we know which nightmare we’re working with. I don’t think we need any more evidence. This one occurs most frequently,’ said Mr Breakleg.
Mrs Cornish nodded, saying nothing and still looking at the painting, pensive.
‘Thank you, everyone. Thanks to you we’ve made progress. We’ll keep in touch,’ said Mr Breakleg, addressing the last sentence to Mrs Cornish alone.
After that, they left the interrogation room. As they walked towards the exit into the Council of Human Affairs, Eliza was overcome with concern for the old lady, completely forgetting her own anxiety.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Cornish?’ Eliza asked.
‘Mm? Oh, yes, I’m fine, dear, thank you,’ said the old lady, as if shaken from trance, ‘it’s just that… I’ve got a lot on my mind lately.’
‘I’m sure it’s going to be fine,’ said Eliza.
‘I really hope so, dear,’ said Mrs Cornish, trailing off in her thoughts again.
They parted their ways in the circular hall with stairs, where Mrs Cornish and Harry went up to the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams and Eliza ascended the stairs leading into the Library of Broken Promises.
As Eliza appeared in the bookshop, which was empty, Mr Wood greeted her again at the counter.
‘How did it go?’ he asked, offering her hot sweet tea.
‘It was fine. Wasn’t easy at first, but we got through it, after all. Seems like they now know what nightmare exactly is bothering people.’
‘Good job! You did a great thing, Eliza. You should be proud of yourself.’
‘I simply told them about my nightmare.’
‘And that takes courage. Confronting your fears is not the easiest thing to do.’
This reminded Eliza of something.
‘Mr Wood, what is the Cemetery of Buried Fears?’
‘It's a special cemetery where people’s fears are buried. The ones they buried themselves, that is. Why do you ask?’
‘Mr Breakleg said that many fears had dug themselves up recently.’
‘Then the situation is far from trifling, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Wood seriously. ‘People’s fears are coming back. Can you imagine living with your fears again after you once buried them and were free from them? Can you imagine being a hostage of your fears?’
Eliza did not want to imagine what it was like.
‘But you did a great thing today, Eliza. You’ve made the resolution of this situation one step closer. It is no small feat.’ Finally, the shopkeeper smiled again. Eliza smiled back, suddenly feeling very tired.
‘You should be going home now. Have proper rest.’
‘I will. Thank you, Mr Wood,’ said Eliza and left ‘Gregory’s Books’.
On her way home, all she could think about was the green piece of cloth that would keep her piece that night yet again.
Chapter 11
Eliza noticed something peculiar. Something she hadn’t paid attention to before.
Since she started using the No-Dreamer, her mood had improved greatly but it seemed to her that many other people looked gloomy, or anxious, or sad. Once she started thinking about it, she could not actually remember so many sullen faces in the streets of her town, or at school, which definitely wasn’t always fun but not to such an extent.
It wasn’t a constant holiday here but the people had always had the air of content and comfort about them. That was one of the reasons why Eliza loved her town – the people were very nice.
Presently, Eliza saw more and more disturbed faces, as if something were weighing on their minds. She could sense, although couldn't explain, the change in the general vibe of the town. She couldn’t help but remember the Dream Map in the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams with a large patch of barren land and heavy rainclouds.
Meanwhile, in the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams, Mrs Cornish was struggling to be hopeful about the case. Her thoughts most of the time kept coming back to the evening when Eliza described her nightmare at the Fixing Department.
This image had popped up here and there multiple times and there was little doubt that it was the very dream that haunted so many people at the moment. But there was something else to it.
Somewhere at the back of Mrs Cornish’s mind there stirred a feeling that she had seen the image of the red-eyed black shape coming out of the window before. But where? That was what she tried so hard but so far failed to remember.
It was difficult to focus on anything because she returned to the thought of the nightmare constantly, shuffling through her memories over and over again. She was trying to remember whether it was one of her dreams too, but that did not appear to be the case, otherwise she probably wouldn’t have forgotten it.
Mrs Cornish had a collection of her personal remembered dreams that she kept in a safe in her office, together with the dream pictures of the most important people of the Council of Human Affairs, including Mr Wood and Mr Breakleg among them. But she had already gone through those numerous times and there was nothing even remotely similar to that terrible image. And yet it was familiar.
Another day of work was coming to an end. The Artists were finishing their pictures and leaving, while the Fixers came in to patrol the entrance to the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams from the Cornish Gallery permanent collection hall.
Mrs Cornish did not feel like going home. She didn’t want to leave the place. Instead, she went to the warehouse where the works sent by aspiring artists were stored.
It was a large tall room with piles of rolled-up canvases stacked on shelves along the walls and on stands in the middle of the room, a layer of dust covering them like a soft thin blanket. Mrs Cornish looked around. She didn’t quite know why exactly she was there. She just came with nothing else to do. Maybe she came here for memories. The place was full of them.
Every canvas had a story to tell, not only through what was depicted on it, but through the very fact that it was here, in this storeroom. It meant someone had had an idea of it, taken time and effort to paint it and then presented it to Mr and Mrs Cornish. Many of them ended up becoming the Artists of the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams and had been working here to the present day. It was a room full of people’s hopes and aspirations, frozen in time and almost faded from people’s memory.
But not all of them were so lucky as to join the ranks of the Artists. In the corner, there was a stack of works that had been rejected. Their authors had not become the Artists, but the works they had submitted remained here. Perhaps, they were good but simply did not fit what the Gallery was looking for.
Mrs Cornish walked up to the stack and took a canvas that lay on top. She unrolled it, and smiled. She remembered the author, a very young boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen he was when he submitted this painting. She'd had to say no to this one but he had kept sending his works every now and then, and she could see how his skill had been evolving with every time until one day he had presented her with a work she could not refuse. It had taken him ten years or so but he'd made it eventually. Perseverance is key, after all.
Mrs Cornish sat on a stool and, one by one, went through the pictures, carried away by the tide of memories. Those weren’t just pictures. They were all hopes and expectations of people, the manifestation of their wishes, the embodiment of their talent and effort.
Mrs Cornish could remember how it'd pained her to say no to any of them. But she could not take everyone. She was responsible for people’s dreams and it's an important duty. She had to be tough even when it was the last thing she wanted.
The initial stack of canvases was melting down while there appeared another one by Mrs Cornish’s feet that was growing larger, as she went through more and more pictures. She was smiling. Sometimes she even laughed, remembering a funny episode related to a particular paiting.
She took another canvas, unrolled it, and dropped it immediately, jumping on her feet and toppling the stool, the smile wiped clean off her face. A sudden memory struck her like an electric shock. The memory of a person whose picture she had just held in her hands.
On the floor, at her feet lay an old canvas with a black red-eyed shape coming through a window painted on it.
Chapter 12
She remembered now where she had seen this image before. She had rejected it once when it had been sent to her for consideration years and years ago. It was so long ago it seemed almost from a different life.
There once was a young man who wanted to become an Artist very much and sent in this very painting as the ultimate example of his artistic vision and technique. Mrs Cornish could not argue with how well the picture had been done but she could not accept something so sinister it'd given her chills when she'd only looked at it. People would be frightened to go to sleep ever again if they saw such a dream.
She remembered that the young man had taken the refusal badly. She had always been very polite about such matters but her politeness had only infuriated him all the more. The painter had got angry and shouted at Mrs Cornish, saying she hadn’t understood a thing about art and been blind to real talent. There was no reasoning with him. He'd left slamming the door behind him never to be heard from again.
And here it was: the painting that he'd once created was now haunting people all over the town.
Mrs Cornish picked up the canvas from the floor and looked at it once again. There was no mistake. This was it. They needed to find the author.
The Chief Curator of the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams rolled up the canvas and rushed out of the storeroom.
It was night time and the star-studded sky was visible through the glass roof. Mrs Cornish marched from room to room, walking as fast as she could manage. Finally, she reached the door and opened it. She went down the stairs of the white-marbled hall and then up another flight.
In the Fixing Department, she walked swiftly past the rows of quirky-shaped tables and on to the very end of the hall to another door with Mr Breakleg’s name on it. She opened it without knocking.
‘I know who paints the nightmare,’ she said, slightly out of breath, and put the canvas on the desk before the Head Fixer.
Mr Breakleg was still in the office despite the late hour. He looked at Mrs Cornish, then at the canvas, then back at Mrs Cornish.
‘I thought I’d seen the image before but I could
n’t remember where. Now I do. I’ve found this in the storeroom among the works that have been rejected. I remember who painted it,’ she said, flustered, her eyes glinting.
Mr Breakleg looked at the picture more attentively.
‘We need to contact the Archive of Fading Memories at once and get all the information we can about this person. We need to find him,’ he finally said.
Half an hour later, a paper file lay on Mr Breakleg’s desk. Mrs Cornish sat silently by the desk staring at the floor, while the Head Fixer was reading the profile of a Jeremy Brand.
‘He is last known to have lived in the North, where he moved almost thirty years ago,’ said Mr Breakleg.
‘The North?’ Mrs Cornish asked, looking at him. ‘But how is this possible? How does he paint dreams of our town if he’s so far away?’
‘It’s the question that I should ask you, Mrs Cornish. If there is anyone who knows all there is to know about the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams, that’s you.’
‘But… I don’t understand. To paint a dream, it needs to be done in the Gallery itself. You can’t do it from home or anywhere else.’
‘Well, we’ll find that out. We’ll be paying a visit to our Mr Brand.’ Then Mr Breakleg wrote a couple of notes, folded them in planes and sent them out of the office.
Mrs Cornish was on her way back from the Fixing Department, her head occupied by Jeremy Brand.
Now she remembered more vividly the hot-tempered young man who would not take no for an answer. She hadn’t paid much attention to his reaction at that time, for some people did get angry now and then if their work had been rejected, and could not have foreseen it would have such dire consequences.
She walked once again under the glass roof of the Gallery, through which the stars peered inside. The canvas with the nightmare remained at the Fixing Department.
Mrs Cornish turned round the corner and approached the door to her office. She inserted the key, turned it, but the key didn’t move. She did not remember leaving the door unlocked…
