Dreamhunter

by Elizabeth Knox

  Laura and Rose set out again. They hurried and clung to the walls. They were the only young women abroad in those streets, and felt conspicuous. They were so nervous and rushed that they missed the head of Plasir’s street on their first pass. They turned back and went more carefully, then found it, a narrow, doglegged alley. It was dry and clean, though, and not too forbidding. This passage led to a narrow path beside the river, with only an iron rail between them and the high brown flood. The path passed around the water-stained basements of several houses then plunged between two, down a tight, short passage to a private door. A black timber door studded with bright copper nail heads.

  Rose pulled the chain that hung above the door, and they heard a bell ringing somewhere in the house.

  The door was answered by the bandy-legged boy who had tested with Laura. His appearance had improved — he’d filled out, his skin was clear, his hair slicked back with pomade, his clothes new and neat. He looked at Laura with lowering suspicion, and his top lip lifted. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Laura said, ‘Mr Plasir gave me his card too.’

  ‘And what about her?’ The boy looked Rose up and down.

  ‘We’re keeping each other company on our errands,’ Rose said.

  ‘May we come in?’ Laura said. The boy stood aside and let them in. He said that Plasir wasn’t in, he was taking his exercise, he would be back shortly.

  The boy showed them into a sitting room lit only by the coal fire and the slivers of light that came through its fixed shutters. There were several wingback leather chairs and a massive leather sofa. There were brass ashtrays on stems beside every seat. There was a gate-leg table, in its centre a silver platter holding sparkling balloon glasses and a cut crystal decanter filled with brandy. The walls were decorated with a frieze of dancing eastern maidens, prancing horses, pheasants, peacocks and gilded palms. There was a clock on the mantelpiece, all its workings visible, fidgeting and glittering under a glass dome. The room smelt of tobacco and furniture polish. The house was hushed.

  ‘Are you here alone?’ Laura asked the boy.

  ‘Not this minute. The cook’s come in to make me and Mr Plasir our lunch.’

  ‘And how are you?’ Laura asked.

  The boy began to boast. He had been apprenticed to Mr Plasir. They went into the Place together, where the boy was able to catch some dreams that Mr Plasir said were special only to him. The boy said he didn’t just have casual work boosting Plasir — no, he had an affinity with Mr Plasir’s sites. And Plasir was teaching him some amazing, special mental disciplines, things that most dreamhunters knew nothing about.

  Laura said, ‘From what I hear Mr Plasir wouldn’t require boosting.’

  ‘Then why are you here if you haven’t come to take up his offer?’ said the boy.

  ‘My business is with Mr Plasir, not you.’

  The boy shrugged. His eyes went back to Rose, and again he scanned her from top to toe. He swallowed nervously, licked his lips, then said he had to go back to his studies. ‘I’m studying the dream almanac.’ He left Rose and Laura alone.

  They sat down, hip to hip, on the sofa. Rose said, ‘I don’t like people who breathe through their mouths.’

  ‘Yes, revolting,’ Laura said.

  Half an hour later the girls heard the street door, and the clatter of the boy’s footsteps as he rushed from somewhere else in the house to the hall to speak to Plasir. Their voices murmured a moment, then the door opened and Plasir came in, with a look of cool curiosity on his pale, taut face.

  Laura and Rose stood up together. Plasir said, ‘Please,’ gestured to the sofa and took a seat himself opposite them. The girls sat down again. Rose put her arm around Laura’s waist. Plasir had not offered to shake their hands.

  ‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’ Plasir said. ‘Are you considering my offer?’ He smiled at Laura.

  ‘I am dreaming Convalescent Two in concert with the resident dreamers at Pike Street Hospital,’ Laura said. ‘I have work enough.’

  She was at a loss. She had hoped that once she got here she would think of some way of picking Plasir’s mind while giving nothing away herself. She was afraid just to ask. But asking was all she could do. She said, ‘I want to ask you some questions about my father.’

  Maze Plasir looked surprised. Then he looked at Rose.

  Rose said, ‘Laura didn’t think she should come here on her own, so I agreed to go with her. I’m only here to keep her company — so you shouldn’t look to me for clues. I haven’t any idea what she’s going to say.’

  ‘Anything I can tell Laura concerning her father concerns you too — since you’re Chorley Tiebold’s daughter.’

  Laura could feel Rose looking at her; they were sitting so close that she could even feel Rose’s breath on her cheek. Laura knew that Rose wanted to consult with her, to say with a look, Wasn’t there something funny about Plasir’s remark, something suggestive? Laura thought there was too, but she would think about it later; she wasn’t about to be swerved from her purpose.

  ‘Come then,’ Plasir said.

  Laura said, ‘My father left me a letter.’

  ‘You mean — a suicide note?’ said Plasir.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Laura. ‘In the letter he mentioned your name in a way that made me think you might know something about what he was doing. The things he was doing that he never talked about.’

  Plasir’s expression said, ‘Is that all?’ He leant forward. ‘You know what he was doing, because he did it publicly.’

  ‘You’re only saying that to make me feel stupid,’ Laura said. ‘If you don’t intend to tell me anything, just say so. Otherwise, won’t you please just tell me?’ Laura was begging him.

  Plasir made dampening signals with his hands.

  ‘My father disappeared. He got on a special train at the end of summer and we didn’t see him again.’

  ‘Yes, I read the papers. But the papers said he attempted a crossing. To attempt a crossing — alone — is insane, or suicidal.’

  Laura didn’t answer.

  Rose said, ‘When we were staying in Summerfort, Mother and Uncle Tziga would go In from Tricksie Bend. That end of the Place was less explored. They wouldn’t have to walk so far to find new dreams. Mother would catch a dream, and sometimes she’d get the express to Founderston, to play at the Rainbow Opera, but mostly her audience followed her to Sisters Beach, and The Beholder. But, at least three times each summer, a special train came for Uncle Tziga.’

  Laura said, ‘My father always said that dreams travel better in summer — because there are longer hours of daylight.’

  Rose said, ‘We would be on holiday and they’d be working hard.’

  Laura said, ‘But Da was never happier in summer. He should have been, but he wasn’t. We were all happier, we were on holiday. Aunt Grace was happier, catching new things …’

  Plasir interrupted Laura. ‘You want to know where he went. Where the special trains took him?’ He looked at them with raised eyebrows.

  Laura nodded.

  ‘Most of what I’m about to tell you is public knowledge, or part of the public record,’ Plasir said. ‘You could put it all together from newspaper reports, if you wanted. It’s not often discussed, though, or discussed in any detail.’

  Maze Plasir waited, gauging their attention, their need. He said, ‘For years dreams have been part of a program of prison reform. Your father was one of a handful of dreamers who were able to catch dreams that could inspire and improve people. Dreams like that are rare and precious. They are never dreams for the open market. They are classified under the Intangible Resources Act as “dreams for the public good”. The Department of Corrections took your father and his dreams to prisons.’ Plasir looked from Rose to Laura, checking their expressions, making sure they understood him. ‘The prisons supply labour for public works,’ he said. ‘You must have seen convicts building roads?’

  Laura shook her head.

  ‘Or perhaps you d
on’t travel anywhere off the beaten track?’ Plasir said.

  ‘I’ve seen convict labourers,’ said Rose. ‘Laura sleepwalks. She never notices anything.’

  ‘When the government first came up with the scheme its merits were debated in the newspapers. This was six or seven years ago. You wouldn’t have been reading the papers then.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Rose said. She seemed to be hoping he had finished.

  ‘I too have a contract to perform dreams in prisons,’ Plasir said. ‘Dreams as rewards. If Tziga Hame worked in rehabilitation, I offered rewards and incentives — and education.’

  Laura was shaking her head, trying to hear the sense in the thick of his words. There was something implied in this talk of incentives and rewards.

  ‘And, of course, as a Gifter I am able to alter dreams. For instance, I can catch a dream about a killing, and then change the face of the victim to fit a certain crime, a particular criminal. Many a murderer has been brought to a better understanding of what they have done by my dreams. Imagine a criminal being able to experience what his victim suffered. You can see how effective it might be. How educational.’

  ‘I see,’ Laura said. ‘You worked on rewards and education, and my father was working in rehabilitation. He gave prisoners inspiring dreams.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Plasir. The way he said it, the word sounded open, like ‘Yes, and …’

  ‘Then why did he never talk about it? And why, in his letter, did he say he’d done terrible things?’

  Plasir said, ‘I am unwilling to be the person who casts a shadow on your memories of your father.’

  If Laura hadn’t been given a task to complete by her father she would have listened to Plasir’s warning. She would have ended the interview, got up, called Rose to follow her and gone away. She hadn’t promised her father, after all, she had only opened his letter. But the letter was part of a bigger legacy, a legacy she wanted. She suddenly understood this, as she sat facing Maze Plasir in his darkened parlour. She knew now, for sure, that she wanted to put her hands into sand and shape it, she wanted to sing to the sand to make it get up and speak to her. Speak to her again. Laura felt, that to take what she wanted, she must accept her father’s whole legacy. Besides, she really did need some clues about why convicts kept appearing in her dreams. She said to Plasir, ‘I need to know.’

  Plasir seemed to settle deeper into his chair. He said, ‘The Department of Corrections subscribes to dreamhunters in order to reward prisoners for their cooperative labour. But if prisoners don’t cooperate, the Department of Corrections uses dreamhunters to punish them.’ Plasir stopped and waited for his listeners to react. When they didn’t, he went on. ‘It has been noted by prison reformers in other countries that, in our prison system, convicts are well clothed and housed and fed. They’re not whipped, or starved. Foreign prison reformers hold up our system as a kind and humane ideal. But, given the nature of criminals, there are always agitators in any prison population. And there are always prisoners who are prepared to protect agitators.’ Plasir spread his hands, palm up, and said, ‘Well — imagine.’ He waited.

  ‘My father took nightmares to the prisons,’ Laura said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Laura was aware that Rose, beside her, had put a hand over her mouth. Laura said, agonised, ‘But why would he do that? He always earned enough. He was famous, and celebrated. Why would he agree to do that? He couldn’t possibly have believed it was right.’

  Plasir said, ‘Was there something he didn’t have, that he badly wanted?’ The way he asked it, he seemed almost gentle. Again he waited, but Laura said nothing.

  ‘When it was first suggested that uncooperative convicts might respond well to the threat of nightmares, Tziga and I were already under contract to the Department of Corrections. He was already selling his inspirations to the prisons, and I was selling my rewards. We both had an affinity with nightmares — but for some reason he could find many more than I. More and worse. But, as I say, we were both under contract, so it was suggested that I go to Tziga and offer him an inducement — a very strong inducement — to help him get over his misgivings about the scheme.’

  Rose jumped to her feet. She yelled at Plasir, ‘Don’t tell her!’

  Plasir glanced at Rose, and shook his head. ‘You’re a clever girl,’ he said, then, to Laura, ‘Do you know that your father and I were once friends? I knew him before he became socially ambitious. Before his eyes lit on those beautiful Tiebolds. In fact, I was with him when he first saw Verity Tiebold. I watched her too, and spoke to her. She made a strong impression on me — too.’ He watched Laura, he looked sad. ‘Do you see?’ he said. ‘I had several dreams that worked. The one he liked best was Stately Lady.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Rose said. She put out a hand to her cousin, then withdrew it again, apparently afraid.

  Laura felt surprisingly alert — but not agitated. Had Plasir’s words injured her? She wasn’t sure. If there was pain it was coming slowly, raining on her, changing her temperature. She said to Plasir, ‘You gave him back my mother. And, for that, he agreed to sell nightmares. The Department of Corrections paid you both for this work. That’s it. That’s all of it.’

  ‘What were you expecting, Laura? A criminal conspiracy?’ Plasir said. ‘I think you will find that the public supports the penal system as it is. The public knows what goes on. They may not want to be bothered with the details, but they know. The general public isn’t fond of details. They know that this is a civilised nation, where no one is tortured, or lives in squalor. That’s all they want to know. There’s no scandal here, Laura. No crime. If you made a fuss, your father’s reputation might suffer, that’s all. As it is people regard him as a kind of saint — a scary saint, one who came out of the invisible realm carrying beautiful visions.’

  Laura found herself trying to work out, quite cool-headed, if Maze Plasir hated her father or not. She said, ‘There’s nothing to be done then?’ She said that, but she thought When you’re ready, catch the dreadful dream and Your Aunt Marta knows The Measures. She thought of her father’s instructions, and his story about the song St Lazarus heard in the tomb. Then she asked Plasir if he had ever seen the convicts in dreams?

  He looked surprised. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Have you? What are they doing, these convicts?’

  ‘They’re waiting to be seen. They’re waiting to be heard,’ Laura said. She got to her feet. ‘Thank you for talking to me,’ she said. She put her arm around Rose’s waist.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Rose, ‘let’s go.’

  But Laura had one more question. She asked Plasir whether he still took his rewards to the prisons.

  ‘I’m still under contract. My business alone won’t support me. My parlour is very exclusive, at most I perform for five clients a night. They pay very well. But even five wealthy customers a night will not keep me in style.’

  Plasir was making excuses, Laura thought. He was saying ‘needs must’. But he knew what he was doing was wrong — whether the public cared or not.

  ‘Please, Laura. I want to leave,’ Rose said.

  ‘We’ll let ourselves out,’ Laura said, as if this were an ordinary visit, as if Plasir had politely stood up to see them out, as good hosts do when their guests get to their feet. Laura led Rose from the room, and from the house.

  Part V

  The Measures

  One

  Marta Hame, the retired director of the choir of St Lazarus, and sister of the dreamhunter Tziga Hame, lived in a large timber house a half-hour walk from a railway station twenty miles south of Founderston. The house was surrounded by orchards that belonged to it, but were worked by a neighbouring farmer. The retired choirmistress was still several months short of her fortieth birthday, but dressed like an elderly widow, in black from neck to ankle, her only adornment a small gold crucifix. Marta Hame was a very religious woman and, despite her retreat to the country, she was still involved in church work. She was on the boards of several church charities an
d was known to be a close confidante of the Grand Patriarch himself. The local postman could testify to this — for letters were exchanged, often daily, between the Palace at the Temple, and the house in the apple orchard.

  The postman was waiting for the train that came through at eight in the morning. The eight o’clock train came and stopped, didn’t just snatch the mailbag in passing from the hook-topped pole beside the track.

  Four passengers got off this train. A farmer jumped down from the steps of a third-class carriage and his wife handed down their baskets, then herself. Another man stepped down from the second-class carriage on to a box the conductor placed for him — this man was a travelling salesman with a sample bag. The passenger who climbed down from first class on to the platform wore a beautiful camelhair coat. He was tall and had gold hair and, for a moment, the excited postman imagined he was witnessing one of the Grand Patriarch’s rare visits to his friend. But the Grand Patriarch generally arrived by car, and with some followers, and this man wasn’t even carrying luggage. Besides, as the man approached, the postman saw he was too young to be the Grand Patriarch. Too young and clean-shaven, and unaccompanied — but very like His Reverence, Erasmus Tiebold. Of course! the curious postman thought to himself. Then, as an experiment, he said to the man, ‘Good morning, Mr Tiebold.’

  CHORLEY SAID GOOD morning to the postman, slightly annoyed that he’d been recognised. This was silly of him, really. How many other men of fashion got off at this country station? Chorley had never learnt to be inconspicuous, to dress modestly, to travel cheaply. He hadn’t managed to do those things even when — as a young man — he couldn’t afford to do otherwise.