Dreamquake

by Elizabeth Knox

  “Mamie gets it from you,” Rose said.

  “Gets what?”

  “Hairsplitting.” Rose was frowning at the ends of her hair. She dropped the crackling golden mass and looked up at him. She began to tell the story—her side of it. “I went for a walk last night and saw some rangers shifting the surplus rails and ties. I wondered what was In from the Awa Inlet and why you were building a railroad there.”

  “I see.” Doran blinked and rubbed his jaw. He felt his scalp prickle as blood pumped up into his head. He said, “To put you right on that score—directly In from here are The Pinnacles, a range of steep, crumbling hills. They are by far the most extensive known barrier in the Place. Last year a group of rangers built a gate to block the entrance of the only pass through The Pinnacles. They did all the welding here, on the shore; then they carried the gate In and set it up. The gate is often locked because the pass through The Pinnacles is unstable and unsafe. Rangers struggle to keep it in reasonable repair. Lately the Body has had rangers building retaining walls on the worst cliff faces in the pass. As it happened, I had surplus rails and timber, and thought they might like to make use of them.” Doran spread his hands. “So there you go,” he said.

  Rose had listened, but toward the end of his speech her face had gone taut with watchfulness. She looked ten years older and superbly intelligent. Cas Doran regarded her with wonder. He thought, “What on earth is she thinking?” He began to check his story for faults. In a moment he had it. Of course, there were new rails all the time, the pile almost always refreshed the moment a load was removed. The rails never sat there long—so they didn’t rust. Rose Tiebold could guess he was lying—but Doran didn’t feel in the least uncomfortable. He only felt very alert. He had a strange urge to ask her what she thought of his explanation, and an even stranger desire to know what she’d think of his whole plan. He put these odd ideas aside and prompted her. “You were watching the rangers and …”

  “And when I came back to the house, I met Ru, and he said I shouldn’t be wandering around at night.”

  “And you shouldn’t.”

  Rose frowned at this interruption and went on in a rush. “And then he said I was different from other girls, and that it was because my mother was a dreamhunter and I’d been exposed. That was his word—‘exposed.’ Then he squashed me into the wall and grabbed my wrist. I told him to let go. He was laughing. Then I told him that Da would take care of him, and then that you would. He got a mean look—so I stomped on his foot and got away.”

  Doran was as intrigued by the similarities in Rose’s and Ru’s stories as by the differences.

  The sun had moved, and Rose’s eyes were now no longer in a strip of shade formed by the window frame. They were watering. She got up and stepped out of the patch of sunlight. She remained standing. “I hope you believe me,” she said, dignified.

  “Ru has a very different story.”

  “I’m amazed he feels he needs a story.”

  “Do you think it’s at all possible that you’re taking this too seriously?” Doran asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. When I talked to Mamie this morning, I was very angry. Then I took a step back. Now my head tells me it wasn’t really serious, I wasn’t in any danger, I was just being nervous. He did keep laughing as if he hoped I’d get the joke.”

  “Well, I’m relieved to hear you say that.”

  “Wait,” Rose said. She held up her hand. “Ru made me feel bad. My head may say that I’m being oversensitive. But my head is timid. It wants to hide itself in the sand. My gut tells me that Ru might have taken his teasing as far as he wanted, even if he thought of it as only teasing.”

  Doran listened, nodding.

  “I hope you believe me,” Rose said again.

  Doran turned away from her and thought—disconnected thoughts. He thought that his son must learn how to behave. Ru must not break the law. No child of his could be a criminal. Then he thought that he’d send Rose back to her home. His wife had said the girl was a troublemaker. It was better simply to remove her. “I’ll have Ru apologize to you,” he said, after a silence.

  “Must I be embarrassed further?”

  Doran looked at Rose sharply. “You haven’t mentioned embarrassment before. And—Rose—when you told Mamie your story, she caused a scene. You must have known she’d do something. You say, ‘I hope you believe me,’ but really you’re asking me to do something. You want to exercise your power, but only up to a point, apparently. You don’t want to be embarrassed. But I think that you are obliged to hear my son’s apology.”

  He watched her grow pale.

  “Rose, I think I can rely on you to be reasonable.”

  Rose burst into tears and sank to her knees. She pressed her face into the seat of the chair she had been sitting in. She wept, totally abandoned—as if in an ecstasy of misery.

  Doran was startled. “Come now,” he said, hovering ineffectually over her. Then, “Do you want me to fetch my wife?”

  “No!” Rose howled. Then, “Why do I always have to be reasonable?”

  “Well, think how you’d feel if I’d said I depended on you to be unreasonable,” said Doran. He was gratified by the result of this remark. Rose stopped crying to think, as tantrum-throwing tots will if some imaginative effort has been made to distract them. He added, “It’s a compliment, you know.”

  Rose wiped her eyes and hiccuped. “People are always trying to control me with compliments.”

  “I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to do right by you. I’ll have Ru apologize, and you’ll hear his apology. It might do him some good to see how upset you are. You will listen to what he has to say, then I’ll arrange for you to get home.”

  “Can Mamie come and stay with me after Christmas? Even if her mother is angry at me?”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I’ll deal with Ru. I’m sure you’re right that he doesn’t really see how he troubled you. But I’ll make him see.”

  Rose muttered something that Doran didn’t catch. He told her to dry her eyes and compose herself. “I won’t be too long,” he said, and left her.

  Alone in the library, Rose considered blowing her nose on the curtain—its nice brocade. It was a spiteful thought. As she considered it, Rose thought of Mamie’s mother’s rich skirts and imagined the curtain was the hem of Mrs. Doran’s skirt. She seethed with fury till she felt she was breathing smoke. Her nostrils were pricking and stinging.

  Rose got up and paced. She laughed at herself, at what she’d nearly said said aloud when Cas Doran had said of Ru “I’ll make him see.” “Yes—I bet there’s a nightmare for that,” she’d muttered. Thank God Doran hadn’t heard her.

  Rose was annoyed with herself for crying. But she’d wanted to go home without having to see Ru Doran again. She longed to be with her family at Summerfort. They would all be there for Christmas. Uncle Tziga too. Rose wanted so much to put her arms around them all—Uncle Tziga, Laura, her ma and da—that she could almost smell them, the different smells of their clothes and hair. She felt like an animal—simple, and crazy with homesickness.

  In her agitated pacing, Rose had stopped before the desk. She stood awhile in a trance, then happened to notice what she was staring at. In the angling sunlight, she could see that the leather inset surface of the desk was printed with different-sized circles. Many circles, like raindrops in a puddle, except only some of them were overlapping. And, as she had only a short while earlier, listening to Doran’s story about the use of steel rails for retaining walls, listening and thinking “That’s plausible” and also “But why is there no rust on the rails?” Rose found herself of two minds. One—the mind on top—was uncomfortable and unhappy and worried about having to face Ru Doran. The other mind, the one underneath, was shouting like a siren, “Look! Circles!”

  There were other things on the desk: piles of papers, folders, an inkwell, and a jumble of pens, pencils, geom
etry instruments. There was also a large rolled canvas. Rose saw that the roll was embossed with curved lines, like scales, marks that showed clearly in the low sun.

  She swooped on it, unfastened the string that kept it closed, and let it fall open.

  It was a map of Founderston. A detailed map, with a scale of six inches to a mile. Rose saw that the central city was covered in circles, some drawn in pencil, some in ink. In the middle of each circle, in neat, particular handwriting, was a street address. Rose read, “121 Courtesy Street; 15 Fuller Grove …” Some of the circles with street names and numbers also had surnames. Some of these names seemed vaguely familiar to Rose.

  As her eyes roamed over the map, she heard footsteps in the hallway. She hurriedly rolled the map, twisted its string around it several times, and set it back at the side of the desk. Then the door opened and she spun around to put her back to the desktop and her face to the window.

  The setting sun was hot on her cheeks. She heard Cas Doran say, “Rose?” and turned around, her face burning, to peer blindly through a fog of green, the afterimage of the bright window. In her head she was reciting the few facts she’d gathered. “121 Courtesy Street. 15 Fuller Grove.” And the names, “Langdon, Polish, Swindon, Pinkney.”

  “Ru,” said Doran, cuing his son.

  Rose saw a shadow step forward. She could scarcely see Ru through the haze of afterimage. He looked like a monster floating in a jar of brightly colored spirits—methanol stained by the monster color leached into it. Rose continued to recite silently, “121 Courtesy Street, 15 Fuller Grove …”

  Ru said, “I’m very sorry I frightened you, Rose. It wasn’t my intention to cause you any distress by my clumsy teasing.”

  “Rose?” Doran said, as if he wanted her to make an argument or ask something. He was prepared to let Ru make light of what had happened, but he was still offering her a chance to put up a fight.

  Ru said, “It was only supposed to be a bit of fun. It was thoughtless of me.”

  “All right,” Rose said. She wanted to get out of the room. Her sight was clearing. She’d felt concealed by her temporary blindness. Now she could see Ru’s smirking, false humility, and his father’s searching stare.

  Rose realized that the names—Langdon, Polish, Swindon,Pinkney—were those of dreamhunters; she was sure of it. Gavin Pinkney was Maze Plasir’s apprentice. And she was sure that the circles represented penumbras. Overlapping penumbras, covering much of central Founderston.

  “May I go now?” she said.

  “Yes, of course,” Doran said. But as she walked by him, he put out a hand and touched her arm. “Thank you for hearing him.”

  Rose shrank back involuntarily. Then she gave a stiff nod and went out.

  The following morning, at low tide, Rose and Mamie and several of the Doran household’s numerous all-purpose servants walked to the train stop by the trestle bridge over the mouth of the Sva. The men set out the flag for the westbound local, then put Rose’s trunk on it when it came. Rose kissed Mamie goodbye and got on the train.

  At Sisters Beach Station, she left her trunk with the stationmaster and walked around the waterfront and up the hill to Summerfort. She found her mother and father sitting on the wicker chairs on the veranda, in their robes and with damp hair, though it was past noon.

  “Hello, Rosy,” said her da. “Is it next Friday already?”

  “What happened, darling?” asked Grace.

  Rose opened her drawstring purse and passed her father Cas Doran’s letter. “I’d like to read that after you,” she said.

  Grace got up and read over Chorley’s shoulder. Partway through she took a deep breath and puffed up all over like an angry cat. Chorley handed the letter to Rose and ran his hands through his hair.

  Rose read,

  My dear Mr. Tiebold,

  Your daughter cut short her visit, though I understand from both her and Mamie that there is some plan for a reciprocal visit sometime after Christmas. I will leave it to you to decide whether or not that should be permitted.

  Rose asked to leave because she had some trouble with my son, Richard. I questioned Rose and Richard, and, unfortunately, received differing accounts of the incident. I do intend to press my son further and deal with him as I find he deserves. For now, I am very sorry for Rose’s distress, and I hope she will soon be comfortable and cheerful again.

  Yours sincerely,

  Cas Doran

  “What did the boy do, darling?” Grace asked.

  “Nothing much. I did think he might hurt me. Though it could have been only a nasty sort of teasing. He grabbed me and kept hold of me even when I told him to let go. I had to tread on his foot.”

  Rose looked into their concerned faces. She remembered how, when she had gotten up the morning after her scene with Ru, she had checked for a bruise on her wrist and was disappointed not to find one. Then she recalled the bruises encircling Laura’s wrists, black bands of bruising, marks she’d noticed as her cousin stood, unbinding her hands, on the balcony of the Rainbow Opera the night of the riot. “Oh, Laura,” she thought again.

  She said to her parents, “I wish I knew for sure that I was in danger.”

  “You did know.” Grace put her arms around her daughter.

  “I was more angry than scared, Ma. It doesn’t seem right to cause so much trouble out of anger.”

  “The boy deserves trouble,” Chorley said. “You can’t go around grabbing girls.”

  “Yes, Professor,” said Grace.

  “I’ll follow it up,” Chorley said. “I’ll make sure Doran does deal with him.”

  Grace frowned at Chorley and gave a small shake of her head.

  “My trunk is at the station,” Rose said.

  “I’ll go get it,” her father said, and stepped off the porch before remembering he was still in his robe.

  As her mother led her indoors, Rose asked, “Is Laura really coming home for Christmas?”

  “Yes. Everyone will be here,” said Grace. “The whole family—just the same as last year.” She smiled at Rose. “Isn’t that amazing?”

  3

  Y MIDAFTERNOON ON THE DAY LAURA AND TZIGA WERE DUE AT SUMMERFORT, ROSE HAD COMPLETED ALMOST ALL her tasks. She’d been to Farry’s to buy cakes. She’d purchased colored crepe paper to make paper chains. She’d sorted through the boxes of old Christmas decorations for whatever was salvageable. Since the family wasn’t going to have a tree that year, Rose rejected the glass balls and birds. She was glad she wouldn’t have to sit around with a white soap bar and cheese grater making snow to sprinkle on the branches. Rose’s ma had always liked to dress the tree. Grace also liked roast goose and brandy-soaked puddings. But Rose’s da had put his foot down several years ago about the midwinter menu, and Summerfort’s cook would now roast a couple of ducks the day before and spend her own Christmas at home while the family dined on cold meat, salads, and fresh berries with cream.

  “It’ll be just like last year,” Rose thought as she hung paper lanterns. “Only without a tree.” She rather missed the tree, which always smelled lovely, though it had seemed like some magnificent and neglected altar, glittering in the dark indoors, ghostly with its soap snow, and at many removes both from what it commemorated, Christ’s birthday, and where it was, a beach house at the height of summer.

  After she had hung the decorations, Rose tried to settle down and read a book. Not only was she unable to concentrate but she found it impossible to sit still. She wandered around the house till her mother told her to either sit down or go outside. Rose went out and ambled around Summer-fort’s grounds, circling the house at the edge of the lawns. When the sun had set, she lit the lanterns. Then she ran down to the beach and stood at the water’s edge, looking out over the smooth bay for a boat. There were several lit masts. Some were moving across the water—fishing vessels heading into Tarry Cove—and some were apparently stationary, though any of those might actually have been headed toward their end of Sisters Beach. Rose strained her eyes. Th
en the dusk-loving sandflies found her and she had to move again.

  She left the beach and walked around the base of the headland to the lagoon. The tide was out. When Rose stepped onto the sand, it bubbled as small basking crabs scuttled back down their water-filled holes. She strolled out into the quiet arena of damp sand. There was no traffic on the road beyond the lagoon, or the rail line farther away against the base of the hills. The night seemed enormous. Rose wasn’t used to being alone—she was often alone in a room reading and, now that she was grown, almost always alone in bed, but not in a landscape. As she paced out into that space, her bare feet on warm silt and rotted shells, she felt that she was taking a little look at the lives of some of the people nearest to her—Laura, her uncle Tziga, her own mother. “How far away they must be,” she thought, “whenever they take one of their walks.”

  When she and Laura were children and complaining that they were bored, Rose’s da would say: “Don’t you have any internal resources?” Having “internal resources” meant having a lively mind, interests, appetite. It meant that you should go and get a book or draw a picture. It meant “entertain your-selves”—preferably quietly. Rose had always been able to entertain herself, and to entertain Laura too. Laura wasn’t as avid a reader, and she was less inclined to think up projects or start a new game. “Given an audience, I expand,” Rose thought, “but given space, I shrink.” Yet Laura—Laura had found space because she wasn’t always with noisy, definite Rose, and because she’d left school and become a dream-hunter, and because her father had disappeared. “She’s grown so much,” Rose thought. Then, “Will I ever catch up with her?”

  Rose turned around and tried to find the break in the trees where the track went up behind the headland. She couldn’t see it at all. She walked to the trees and went along beside them, stumbling sometimes and skinning her ankles on drift-wood, till she found it. Its soft, sandy surface was cold now. There was dew on the trees flanking the path, and dew on the lawns of Summerfort. All the lanterns were still alight, but several of their candles were guttering. The glass doors were closed on the rapidly cooling air.