Dreamhunter

by Elizabeth Knox

  The guards were curious. One tapped at the statue with his club, while the other ran his hand down the figure’s muscled side. The statue was finished, but not polished, he noticed — its surface was still gritty. One man called the attention of the other to a cloth that had been crammed behind the statue. He crouched down to try to pull it free. It was a worn, gabardine cloth — perhaps a workman’s drop cloth. He couldn’t free it, but as he was working on it he noticed that the drinking fountain was still there behind the figure — the statue seemed to have been posed as though sitting on the bowl of the fountain. The guard pointed this out to his companion. They spent a few minutes puzzling over this whimsical addition to the Rainbow Opera’s decorations. Then they walked on, one pausing to check the lock on the dreamer’s door as he went by.

  THE FOUR OVAL balconies of the Rainbow Opera were full of the Opera’s patrons. Many were wearing the latest spring fashions in sleepwear. The men wore quilted crimson or grey robes, and the women were mostly in white and darker grey, floating silks trimmed with swansdown. The people milled about in the balconies, and up and down the red-carpeted staircases, visiting friends. Waiters wove between them carrying trays of sweet wine or chocolate liqueur mixed with fresh cream.

  The people paused in their talk to applaud as Grace Tiebold appeared under the dome, and began to climb the spiral stair to the dreamer’s bed. At the Rainbow Opera the dreamer’s bed was on a raised platform in the centre of the auditorium, and at the same height as the second balcony. The long train of Grace Tiebold’s embroidered robe trailed after her around the turns in the stairs. Despite her elaborate costume the dreamhunter looked girlish, small and thin, her light brown hair bobbed, her wrists, neck and ears bare of jewellery. At the top of the stair she turned to make a curtsy to the President of the Republic. He was on his private balcony, isolated from the rest of the second floor by locked doors. Grace bent her knee and inclined her head, then raised her arms to the rest of the public, who clapped and cheered. Then, as she always did, Grace turned and blew kisses towards the balcony before the second-floor private suites belonging to her family. The crowd looked where she threw her kisses, to see that, this evening, only the dreamhunter’s daughter and niece were in attendance. The girls were, as usual, the two youngest people at the performance. The patrons noticed that Rose Tiebold was fulfilling every expectation people had of her by growing more beautiful with each passing month. ‘But she won’t be out this summer, though,’ one society matron said to another, consolingly — they had girls coming out that season, and the competition for good husbands was always hard enough without the added complication of half the eligible men falling for the same girl.

  CAS DORAN WISHED the President of the Republic a good night and retired to his private balcony. His son Ru had ordered some more chocolate. Ru was posted at the rail, looking out over the auditorium and waving to his friends. Doran said, ‘Ru, I’ll be back out shortly, save me some of that chocolate.’ He went into his suite and shut its padded door. The sound of the Opera’s crowd retreated completely.

  Maze Plasir was waiting for him. Plasir had his new boy with him. The boy stared at Doran with wide eyes, then looked to his master for a cue as to how he should behave. Plasir nodded faintly, and only then did the boy extend his hand. Cas took the limp, sweaty hand and shook it.

  ‘Gavin knows that he must regard this as a very great privilege,’ said Plasir. He looked the boy, ‘Don’t you, Gavin?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Plasir.’

  ‘I’ve been telling Mr Doran what a talent you are,’ Plasir said.

  ‘And I had heard already from the examiners,’ said Doran.

  Maze Plasir seemed to be taking a great deal of pleasure in their little act of patronage. He said to the boy, ‘Now, Gavin, you’re Mr Doran’s guest, but you mustn’t bother his other guests.’

  ‘Yes, Gavin. You must keep your room.’ Doran waited for the boy to agree.

  The boy swallowed, then nodded.

  ‘You’ll be very comfortable. The room will be my daughter’s when she is old enough to attend these things.’ Cas Doran put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and walked him to the bedroom. ‘Sleep well, dream well,’ he said. He closed the door on the boy.

  ‘They’ll be ringing the bells in fifteen minutes,’ Plasir said. He began winding his scarf about his neck and buttoning his coat. ‘I came up the stairs from the dreamer’s door. I could still smell Grace Tiebold’s perfume in the stairwell.’ Plasir smiled to himself.

  ‘And you persuaded your boy to think that he’s here only for the benefit of the experience?’ Doran asked.

  ‘He’s the best I’ve ever had,’ said Maze. ‘But simple — or single-minded. He believes every bit of flattery he hears. He’s hungry for it, and totally credulous. That’s the profile of an ideal Colourist. I can guarantee that he’ll go into his trance when he hears the bell. He’ll catch everyone when they’re dropping off. Hopefully he will still be performing his little repetitions by the time Grace Tiebold falls asleep, so that, in the first minute of her dream, he might be able to get his ideas out to her whole audience. Even if he isn’t able to do that he will manage to colour the dreams of everyone in the suites on either side of this one, and yours, of course.’

  ‘I don’t mind that. I look on it as quality control. Your Colourists are very convincing, Maze. I still find myself congratulating myself on my judgment regarding Mr Gregg and what a fine speaker he’s made.’ Cas Doran laughed. ‘I find myself thinking, “What a decent, fair man.” And I hope I’ll wake up tomorrow thinking how wonderful Garth Wilkinson is. How he should be enshrined. How desirable it would be that he remains in office.’

  ‘Knowing what I know,’ Plasir said, ‘I’d discount any idea I had while dozing off in a dream palace.’

  ‘You and I are the only ones who know how good you are, how priceless,’ Cas said — a cool man, but passionate in admiration.

  Maze Plasir smiled. He finished buttoning his coat. He said he’d leave when the balconies had cleared. They went to the door together, Doran saying, wistfully, that he hoped his son had left him some hot chocolate.

  ‘Sleep well,’ said Plasir. ‘Dream well.’

  Ru Doran was leaning over the balcony rail. When his father joined him he turned, eyes bright, and said, ‘Is that Mamie’s friend? That beautiful girl?’

  ROSE STOOD STRAIGHT and held her head high. For a moment she could feel all eyes on her. The attention was like a hot spell of sunlight on a dull day and, heated, Rose put up a hand to lift her hair off the back of her neck. The stares had made her self-conscious, but her gesture was unself-conscious, it was innocent and arresting — and, of course, it only encouraged various people to stare harder at her. Out of the corner of her eye Rose saw some hulking boy on the balcony of the Secretary of the Interior’s suite imitate her mother and blow a kiss her way.

  ‘Who is that cocky so and so?’ Rose muttered to Laura.

  Laura seemed even more dazed than she had all afternoon. She was still sucking on one of Farry’s raspberry lollipops. She had arrived at lunch with one in her mouth already, and her dustcoat’s pockets stuffed with a dozen more. Her lips were stained red — and looked raw now — though when she’d appeared in the restaurant she had only looked childish.

  ‘Laura!’ Rose said, and turned her cousin’s head so that she would look across the space at the balcony opposite them. Rose felt Laura’s jaw clench under her fingers. Laura said, ‘That boy?’ exuding raspberry-scented breath. ‘Well, he’s with Cas Doran so perhaps he is Mamie’s older brother.’

  Rose decided that she would have to share some news she’d been withholding now if her cousin was going to be able to appreciate why it might be uncomfortable to have Mamie’s brother kissing his hand at her. ‘You know I am spending the first two weeks of the summer with the Dorans,’ Rose said. ‘On Mamie’s invitation.’

  Laura shrugged.

  Rose had expected Laura to laugh — to see right away that she could hope to he
ar some good stories as well as Rose’s views on Cas Doran’s character, opinions and interests. The whole point of Rose’s campaign of making-friends-with-Mamie had been to get near enough to Mamie’s father to make an assessment of him and his associates. Yet, when Rose was at the Dorans over the coming summer, making her assessment of Mamie’s father, there might be other intrigues for her to share with Laura — like, for instance, how Rose would manage to cope with Doran junior’s flattering attention.

  But Laura didn’t laugh. She only stared at the Doran men and the President, her eyes shiny and dull at once, as though another skin had grown over their surfaces. Laura hadn’t even waved to Grace. She was slumped on one of the ottomans by the balcony rail, side-on to the amphitheatre and hunched down as though she wasn’t happy to be seen.

  Laura had been vague and absent at lunch — but friendly enough. She had remembered to bring Grace and Rose Lazarus’s Day gifts. Rose was rather surprised at this — since it was normally the sort of nicety that slipped Laura’s mind. Laura had turned up to lunch with two beautiful packages of Farry’s finest confections — a hazelnut log for Grace, and Rose’s favourite sweet, musk creams.

  Rose had her package open on her lap, and had already eaten three. Her lips were greasy and her mouth perfumed. She would save the rest till they were in bed and could share them — though Laura seemed content to stain her mouth with those cheap boiled lollies.

  Rose flipped her hair again and stood up, stretched and took a deep breath. The tall gas flames around the coping of the Opera’s dome sent unsteady light down through the stained glass. The house lights began to dim by stages, a little at first to hurry the patrons to finish their conversations, wine, chocolate, cups of roasted rice tea, and at least think of retiring to their rooms. As the house lights dimmed the fluttering, multicoloured radiance that came through the dome grew stronger, till the whole auditorium began to look as though it were under water.

  Rose spotted another young man — this one on the third floor. He was leaning over the balustrade opposite and waving at her. She waved back. She said to Laura, delighted, ‘I am beginning to see what my life’s going to be like!’

  Laura merely asked her whether she was sleepy.

  Rose wasn’t. She’d got up early that morning but wasn’t tired at all. In fact she felt jittery — either picking up her mother’s performance nerves, or wound up by all the attention she was getting. Rose didn’t answer Laura, because she caught sight of the latest male admirer making his way down the staircase to their level.

  The lights dimmed another notch. The crowds on the balconies began to thin. People called out to one another, ‘Goodnight. Dream well.’ Some of the padded doors were already fastened. The waiters were gathering empty cups and glasses.

  Rose grabbed Laura’s arm. She pointed, wanting to show her cousin the man hurrying up to them.

  Laura said, apparently to herself, ‘I like things the way they are.’ She sounded very definite — and as though she were arguing with someone — though not with anyone there with them on the balcony. But then she did speak to Rose. ‘I love the way the torchlight shines through the roof. Your mother looks like an enchanted, sleeping queen.’

  Grace wasn’t asleep. She was propped up on her elbows and eating an apple.

  Laura looked up at Rose then, and said, plaintive, ‘I always liked the Rainbow Opera.’ She was talking, Rose thought, as if she had just discovered a plot to burn the building down.

  ‘What is it, honey?’ Rose said, concerned. But before Laura could answer the young man appeared beside them. ‘Hello,’ Rose said, and held out her hand. ‘I am Rose Tiebold.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ The young man was briskly polite. ‘Again. Alexander Mason,’ he said, and shook her hand.

  ‘Oh, you,’ said Rose. It was the boy from the infants’ beach. He had done some growing. He seemed friendly, too, but only looked at Rose for a moment before turning to Laura. He offered Laura a bright, eager smile.

  ‘Oh — Sandy!’ Laura said. ‘Sandy — what are you doing here?’ It sounded like a lament.

  Alexander Mason frowned. ‘You’re not happy to see me?’

  Rose thought he was risking an even worse rebuff. She was impressed.

  Laura showed more life than she had all day. She jumped up and grabbed Alexander Mason’s hands. She gripped them hard and drew him to her, till they stood chest to chest with their locked hands between them — rather like, Rose thought, singers about to perform a love duet. Rose took a closer look at Mason’s heavy, freckled face, and thought that he wasn’t really her idea of handsome. But Laura looked inspired. Then she looked confused. She released Mason’s hands. Rose heard him draw a sharp, shocked breath.

  Rose said, ‘The Hames can be very dramatic.’ She patted Alexander Mason’s arm. ‘Don’t let it worry you.’

  Mason glanced at her, frowned again, then said to Laura, ‘Have you been chewing Wakeful?’ He sounded managing — stern, paternal. If Laura hadn’t been behaving so badly towards him herself, Rose would have been tempted to kick him.

  The lights went down another notch. The bells began to chime, the balconies to empty.

  ‘No, I’ve been sucking a lollipop,’ Laura said. She didn’t seem at all offended.

  ‘That would be one way of disguising Wakeful,’ said Mason.

  ‘Why would I? I am going to sleep tonight, to dream,’ Laura said. Her voice was dull.

  ‘I am here with Uncle George,’ Mason said. He addressed Rose this time — and changed the subject, she was pleased to see. She wasn’t used to being ignored. ‘Your mother asked my uncle to come and help her. She’s been having trouble falling asleep.’ Mason looked over the rail. ‘There he goes,’ he said, and pointed to the balding, burly man climbing the spiral stair to the platform. ‘Since your father’s away,’ Mason said, to Rose, ‘he can’t object. Besides, Uncle’s a portly old gent.’

  ‘She’s so sly,’ Rose said, of her mother. ‘She loves being boosted. Da would have a fit. Your uncle isn’t palsied and doesn’t carry a cane — so Da would still object.’

  Rose imagined that she could hear people murmuring, even above the bells. She looked about and saw — yes — they were pointing Mason’s uncle out to one another, then looking her way. She resisted an urge to thumb her nose at them.

  ‘Everyone will fall asleep at once,’ Laura said. ‘Since your uncle is a Soporif. They’ll go down and stay down.’ She looked about, turned her body and her head, as though searching for an avenue of escape. Then she froze, staring.

  Rose followed Laura’s gaze and saw that her cousin had caught sight of a pregnant woman. But why should Laura look frozen with fright at the sight of a pregnant woman? Rose reached for Laura’s hand, and her hand collided with Alexander Mason’s — he had reached for Laura too.

  Laura turned away from them. ‘I’m going in,’ she muttered. She walked away into the Hame suite and — much to Rose’s surprise — closed the door.

  ‘I am always upsetting her,’ Mason said.

  ‘Oh, poor you,’ Rose gushed. Then she said, sharp, ‘And you only sometimes mean to.’ She had decided to blame him for Laura’s peculiar mood.

  His face went dark. ‘You girls,’ he fumed. ‘You think you own the world.’

  ‘I shall,’ Rose said, with as much hauteur as she could muster — which was a lot. ‘You had better get back to your nice little room, Alexander.’ Rose said. She turned on her heel and went into the Tiebold suite.

  Rose knocked on the connecting door. Laura opened it.

  Laura said, ‘I am going to go to bed by myself. My sleeping is all over the place these days. I don’t want to spoil it for you.’

  ‘All right. If you like.’

  ‘Have you got your musk creams?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose produced the box and opened it. Half the creams had gone already. ‘Take one,’ she offered. ‘They’re very good, though the taste is a little different from the last box I had.’

  Laura took
one. She said she would eat it in bed. She leant towards Rose and kissed her cheek. Then she closed the door. And Rose thought she heard the sound of the lock turning.

  Rose got into bed with her box of creams. She turned the lamp down low. She took one sweet and slowly excavated the musk cream from its cup of toffee. She was cosy, but not at all sleepy. She had too much on her mind. For instance, she’d connected three things in her thoughts — Laura’s sudden inexplicable fondness for raspberry lollipops, her agitation on seeing Alexander Mason and her horrified look at the pregnant woman. ‘No, no, no,’ Rose said to herself, shaking her head. She had been reading too many ‘educational books’. (Founderston Girls’ Academy had a secret club — the Educational Books Club — which circulated novels that girls their age were not usually allowed to read. Novels in translation with stories where married women had affairs then killed themselves.)

  Rose was more excited than worried by the thought that her cousin had ‘got herself into trouble’. After all, if something like that happened they would all look after Laura. Nothing like that could make the family falter in their love. However, Rose’s father might murder Alexander Mason … Rose’s thoughts circled, excited and — it seemed to her — loud. Time passed. She finished her musk creams. She tossed and turned. Finally she got up, found a book and turned up the lamp to read. It was one of her father’s books, bought to research a trip the family had planned and hadn’t taken. It was about castles in France.

  For a time Rose was lost, floating down a famous river with a guide who delighted in stories of witch trials and walled-up wives.

  She heard the clock on Temple Square strike midnight. And, some time after midnight, she heard the screaming start.

  SHORTLY AFTER THE clock struck twelve, the two guards were ambling past the alcove and dreamer’s door, as they had countless times that night. They had just met another pair of guards and exchanged reports. All was well.

  The moon was up, its light pulsing through gaps in fast-flying cloud. The wind was higher in the upper atmosphere than on the ground, though the river’s surface was ruffled, its ripples not black, but speckled with the same grey light as the cloud. The torches on the Opera’s roof had become fluttering banners of fire. They gulped and snapped above the men. The ground was wet and reflected the moon and torchlight.