Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
Also by Theresa Breslin
Copyright
About the Book
‘You Butterfingered Buffoon!’ shouted the Dream Master. ‘You’ve gone and done it again!’
Cy’s powerful imagination means that he can zap through Time and Space to really live his dreams. But dreams aren’t easy to control – even with the help of a crabby Dream Master!
So it’s a Thousand and One Types of Trouble when Cy accidentally draws a famed Arabian princess into his world. Soon she’s causing havoc, refusing to return home and determined to enter the TV Talent competition that’s coming to town.
A terrific fantasy tale that explores the magic of storytelling – in every time and every place.
THE FOURTH BOOK IN THIS BEST-SELLING SERIES.
for
Wendy and Jack
Storyteller Supreme and Master of the Dream
‘YOU’LL NEED TO find somewhere really safe to hide your piece of dreamsilk.’
‘Whaaat?’ Cy glanced up from rummaging through the tall straw basket on his bedroom floor to look at the little man sitting cross-legged on his pillow. ‘What did you say, Dream Master?’
‘Your piece of dreamsilk.’ Cy’s Dream Master repeated irritably. ‘The piece of dreamsilk that you tore from my dreamcloak. It needs to be kept safe.’
Cy pulled a pair of knee-length ladies’ high-heeled boots from the bottom of the basket and tossed them onto the assortment of things mounting up on his bed. Then he stuck his hand back in and pulled out an old dinner jacket of his dad’s and a tambourine tied about with a red spotted scarf.
‘Why are the contents of that basket more important than listening to me?’ snapped the Dream Master.
‘It’s one of the storage baskets from our attic,’ explained Cy. ‘My friends and I are entering the big TALENT TV competition next Saturday and I need some props.’
‘Talent!’ snorted the Dream Master. ‘Talent! I don’t know what talent you think you possess, but it certainly isn’t for listening!’
‘Sorry.’ Cy put down the Chinese fan and doll’s enamel teapot he was now holding. ‘Sorry, Dream Master. What were you saying?’
‘I said that we need to hide your piece of dreamsilk somewhere no one will discover it.’
‘I put it away very carefully after our last adventure,’ said Cy. ‘Don’t you think it’s safe enough where it is?’
Cy’s Dream Master shook his head and spoke in a firm voice. ‘That’s a piece of my precious dreamcloak you’re talking about.’ He pointed to the great cloak of dreams that hung down from his shoulders and spilled out across Cy’s bed. ‘A very valuable piece of my dreamcloak,’ he said. ‘And you’ve got it stuffed under that chest of drawers over there along with a whole load of other junk. In the wrong hands it could be extremely dangerous. Supposing somebody found it by mistake?’
‘Nobody will find it,’ said Cy confidently. ‘Underneath the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers is a secret space that only I know about. And it’s not junk that I keep in there, it’s all of my private things. No one else has ever found that hiding place. Not Mum or Dad, not even Lauren.’
The Dream Master continued to shake his head.
‘I’m very careful with things,’ Cy insisted. ‘Especially if it’s got anything to do with the dreamcloak.’
‘May I remind you that on the one occasion you were supposed to be looking after my dreamcloak you allowed your mother to put it in the washing machine!’ the Dream Master said nastily.
‘Oh, don’t go on about that,’ said Cy. ‘I did say I was sorry.’
‘I had to spend aeons in the fields of Elysium trying to recuperate from the trauma.’
‘I got the dreamcloak back,’ said Cy.
‘Eventually.’
‘And you did say that it’s as good as new again,’ Cy went on. ‘Even the torn edge has mended itself.’
‘I don’t think you realize . . .’ began the Dream Master.
Cy groaned. Why did adults frequently begin sentences with the words, ‘I don’t think you realize . . .’
It was moments like this that Cy’s brain switched off. He could feel it happening right now. His mind began to slide sideways and he couldn’t stop it. Although, if he was being absolutely honest with himself, Cy would have to admit that his brain frequently drifted off somewhere else even when people weren’t talking to him. At times like that, it wasn’t that he was thinking of nothing, as his mum and dad or his teacher, Mrs Chalmers, often believed. It was just that he couldn’t always remember on every occasion specifically what he had been thinking of when anybody asked him afterwards. It got him into the most amazing amount of trouble at school and at home. Cy’s Grampa was practically the only person who didn’t nag him about it. ‘Your brain works like that because you are a free thinker,’ Cy’s Grampa once told Cy, ‘like Leonardo da Vinci or Einstein. And, don’t forget, they were the boys that changed the world.’
‘Pay attention, Cy!’ snapped the Dream Master.
Cy blinked. ‘Sorry.’
‘Your small scrap of dreamsilk could be very dangerous,’ the Dream Master said gravely. ‘You tore it from my dreamcloak, remember?’
‘Of course I remember,’ said Cy. How could he forget? It had happened the first time he had ever met his Dream Master, when Cy had discovered that, with the help of his Dream Master and his dreamcloak, he was able to travel through Time and Space and dream his own dreams. They had been returning from the Valley of the Kings in Ancient Egypt and Cy had been gripping so tightly to the hem of the dreamcloak that part of it had ripped off in his hands.
The Dream Master gazed at Cy from beneath his bushy eyebrows and his eyes were serious. ‘I worry about what might happen if that piece fell into the wrong hands. Dreamsilk has the potential to release Imagination. And Imagination is the most powerful force known through all Time and Space. Until you learn to use it properly,’ he said, ‘your piece of dreamsilk has got to be kept secure. Safe, Shielded, Screened, Sealed, Shrouded, Secret . . .’
‘OK. OK.’ Cy held up his hand. ‘I get the picture.’
Cy went to his chest of drawers. He got down on his knees and pushed aside the stack of old comics that was piled up against the front. In the space underneath the bottom drawer, away from the prying eyes of his family, was where he kept his collection of favourite objects.
‘The last time we examined your little piece of dreamsilk,’ said the Dream Master, ‘it had grown. It was getting bigger, becoming charged with your energy, your Imagination . . .’
Cy looked up from where he was kneeling on the floor. He realized that his Dream Master was trying to warn him about something. From previous experience Cy knew that it was wise to listen. ‘And?’ he asked.
‘And . . .’ the Dream Master spoke slowly, ‘as you yourself have noticed, my dreamcloak has mended itself. The
torn edge is sealed. That means that your piece of dreamsilk is now not connected in any way with me, or my dreamcloak. If you use your piece, if your Imagination is released through it, then it means that you may travel where I do not lead.’
‘But I’ve done that before,’ said Cy, remembering how once or twice, even without the Dream Master’s help, he’d slipped into the dreamworld and managed to think his way out of dangerous situations.
The Dream Master raised an eyebrow. ‘Efficiently? Competently?’
‘Well, not exactly, I suppose,’ said Cy.
The problem with running your own dreams, Cy found, was that no matter how hard he concentrated, something always went wrong. Being able to get inside his dreams, rather than having the dream inside his head like most other people did, could cause chaos in his life.
‘Using your own dreamsilk also means that you can go where I cannot follow,’ the Dream Master said gravely.
‘I’d be completely on my own?’
‘Utterly.’
Cy wondered how he would cope if he had to manage a whole dream by himself. He’d had one or two narrow escapes in the past when journeying through TimeSpace with his Dream Master – almost eaten by crocodiles . . . attacked by a mad Viking in medieval York . . . and driving a chariot through the streets of Pompeii as Vesuvius erupted around them.
‘I think I might not be ready to do that,’ he said.
‘I know that you’re not ready to do that,’ replied the Dream Master. ‘You must be properly prepared.’
‘In what way?’
‘Instructed. Tutored.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Cy. ‘You mean like school?’
The Dream Master rolled his eyes. ‘Possibly there will be slight differences.’
‘No tests?’ asked Cy.
‘Only those of your own making.’
Cy pulled the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers out a little way and peered into the gap at the back. He could see some of the things he kept there: his fossil stone and the old Roman coin he picked up in Pompeii. Further behind these lay Grampa’s war medal and the matchbox with the grains of sand from Arabia. Around and among these objects flowed the torn-off piece of the Dream Master’s dreamcloak.
Cy tried to pull the drawer right out onto the floor, but he couldn’t move it any further forward. ‘The drawer’s stuck,’ he said.
‘Let me have a go,’ said the Dream Master.
‘No offence,’ said Cy, ‘but if I can’t open the drawer I don’t see how you’ll be able to.’
‘Excuse me,’ replied the Dream Master. ‘I am the person who wrestled with Hercules, and won. Let me tell you, he’d have only managed about three and a half of his twelve tasks if I hadn’t come along. And it was I who supported the immense Giant Atlas as he held up the world, I who aided the Titans when—’
‘I believe you,’ Cy interrupted him. ‘But it’s not to do with strength. I think the reason it won’t budge is because the dreamsilk is caught in it.’
‘I have both strength and skill,’ the Dream Master insisted. ‘Who do you think helped Theseus find his way through the Maze of the Minotaur? That one couldn’t find his lunch in his own lunchbox. He was dithering about for days until I came along. And I could easily have helped Alexander the Great unravel the knot of Gordian. But would he listen? No, he would not. A very impatient man. The history books don’t tell you that.’
The Dream Master jumped down from Cy’s bed, sweeping his dreamcloak behind him. ‘Stand aside,’ he ordered, ‘and let me do it. You’re not aware of my many talents because I don’t show off, or boast, or tell tall tales,’ he glared at Cy, ‘like some people I could mention.’
‘I don’t tell tall tales,’ Cy protested. ‘I’m good at making up stories. That’s different. My Grampa says I’ve got a wonderful imagination.’
‘Too much Imagination can get you into bother,’ replied the Dream Master testily.
‘Actually,’ said Cy, ‘I’ve found that having an imagination can sometimes get me out of bother.’
The Dream Master paused. ‘Indeed . . . that is true. I recall the time when your storytelling skills helped you escape from some very angry Vikings.’ A thoughtful expression came over his face. ‘And there is another such person I met a long time ago, who told tall tales to save her very life . . .’ The Dream Master broke off.
From his position on the floor Cy peered up at his Dream Master. If he didn’t already know how crabby, bossy and bad-tempered his Dream Master could be, then he would have sworn that was a soppy look on the little man’s face. Cy bent forward and took firm hold of the handle of the bottom drawer to give it one last good pull.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘Mmmm?’ said the Dream Master. His eyes refocused. ‘Sorry . . . my mind was slipping into another Time, what did you ask me?’
‘Who were you talking about just then?’ said Cy. ‘Who was it who told tales to save their life?’
‘The Teller of Tales.’ The Dream Master sighed. ‘The Storyteller Supreme was a princess in fabulous fabled Ancient Arabia.’
‘What was she called then, this Arabian princess?’ asked Cy, now using his two hands on the handle of his chest of drawers.
‘Shahr-Azad,’ murmured the Dream Master.
‘Shahr-Azad?’ repeated Cy. Still hauling on the drawer he glanced over his shoulder. His Dream Master’s face had again taken on a look of dreamy wonder. ‘Who is Shahr-Azad?’ he asked.
At that precise moment the drawer came unstuck. Cy rocketed backwards to collide with the Dream Master and land in a heap on the floor. There was a blinding flash of light and a dense cloud of purple smoke filled the air.
‘You Butterfingered Buffoon!’ shouted the Dream Master. ‘You’ve gone and done it again! Dragged us into a dream without first thinking about it properly.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Cy sat up, coughing through the swirling mist. ‘We don’t seem to have travelled anywhere. We’re still in my bedroom, and nothing seems to have changed—’ He broke off and stared at the space behind his bedroom door. ‘Wh . . . Wh . . . What’s that?’
‘What? Where?’ said the Dream Master, rubbing his eyes to clear them.
Cy pointed to the corner of his room where a lumpy-shaped roll of bright-red carpet lay on the floor. ‘That wasn’t there before,’ he whispered. ‘Where did it come from?’
The Dream Master gave Cy a fearful look. ‘I don’t know.’
Cy got up, took a step towards the strange-looking bundle, and reached out his hand.
‘Don’t touch it!’ shrieked the Dream Master.
CY STOPPED WITH his fingers only centimetres away from the roll of carpet.
‘We might not be in a dream, and we might not have travelled through TimeSpace,’ said the Dream Master, ‘but there’s a strange atmosphere in here. Can’t you sense it?’
Cy closed his eyes and turned his head from side to side. He breathed in deeply. ‘There’s a strong perfumey smell, like spices.’ He opened his eyes. ‘But there’s nothing else going on. No dreamweaving.’ Cy’s gaze came to rest once more on the rolled-up rug in the corner. ‘And that’s only an old rug . . . I think,’ he added.
‘I don’t like the look of it,’ said the Dream Master. ‘It looks . . . it looks as though it might be alive.’
‘Sometimes you make such a fuss about things,’ said Cy and reached out his hand again. But then he too hesitated. The carpet seemed to be vibrating softly with some unseen force.
‘It’s come from a different TimeSpace,’ hissed the Dream Master. ‘We have to find out where it came from and why it’s here before you start meddling with it.’
‘And how,’ said Cy.
‘How what?’ said the Dream Master. ‘I mean, what do you mean . . . “how”?’
‘How did it get here?’ said Cy. He glanced back at his chest of drawers. The bottom drawer was upended on his bedroom floor with the contents spilled round about. Cy crossed the room, kneeled down, and looked into th
e cavity underneath. All his precious things were still there, Grampa’s war medal, the Roman coin, his fossil stone, the matchbox which contained the sand from Arabia. Cy’s piece of dreamsilk was draped close to them, quivering gently.
‘The dreamsilk is moving,’ Cy whispered. ‘I must have touched it as I pulled the drawer out.’
The Dream Master came and peered over Cy’s shoulder. ‘You Gormless Great Galoot! You know that you have to be careful when you touch the dreamsilk. The dreamsilk controls the dreamworld. Whatever you Imagine can actually happen. What were you thinking about at the time you pulled the drawer out?’
‘Thinking?’ said Cy. ‘I was thinking . . . Um . . .’ Cy felt again one of those awful moments of sliding despair that he got when he couldn’t remember things that everyone expected him to. ‘Um . . . I was thinking . . .’
‘Well, saying then,’ snapped the Dream Master. ‘What were you saying as you pulled open the drawer?’
‘Um . . .’ Cy looked around vaguely. Then he caught sight of his matchbox which held the sand from Arabia. ‘Arabia . . . That’s it! We were both talking about Ancient Arabia . . .’
‘Arabia . . .’ The Dream Master glanced back nervously at the corner of Cy’s room. ‘Ancient Arabia.’
‘What’s so special about Ancient Arabia?’ asked Cy.
‘You’ve never heard of Ancient Arabia?’ demanded the Dream Master.
‘I might have read some stories from Arabia.’
‘What is the matter with your school teachers that you are not aware of important aspects of history?’
‘We do lots of history,’ said Cy. ‘Vikings, and, and, Romans and Egyptians and Aztecs and Greeks and—’
‘– And manage to miss out one of the most interesting. The cradle of civilization, where Magic, Myth and the Wonders of the World unite!’
‘What’s that got to do with this old rug?’ said Cy, trying to stop his Dream Master ranting on and on.
‘If it originated in Ancient Arabia,’ the Dream Master spoke carefully, ‘then that “old rug” might not be an “old rug”. It might be a carpet – a flying carpet.’
‘A flying carpet!’ Cy exclaimed. ‘Wow! A real flying carpet! Can we try it out?’
Dream Master: Arabian Nights Page 1
