Dream Master: Arabian Nights

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘Flying carpets do not fulfil all that they appear to promise,’ said the Dream Master. ‘I myself have not yet quite mastered the art of flying them precisely. There’s always steering problems. Landing and take-off can be tricky. In the hands of inexperienced flyers collisions occur. Safety belts are not a feature, nor are individual passenger airbags.’

  ‘A quick shot,’ begged Cy. ‘It would be so much fun.’

  ‘Not if you fall off.’

  Cy got to his feet. ‘Please.’

  ‘Wait.’ The Dream Master looked from the rug to the dreamsilk. ‘It still doesn’t explain why it came here. If you were touching the dreamsilk and talking of Arabia then we should have gone there, to Arabia.’

  Cy bent and picked up his piece of dreamsilk. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘The dreamsilk was covering the matchbox containing Arabian sand.’

  ‘Even so . . . Why has it worked in reverse?’ the Dream Master puzzled. ‘Why did we not go there? Why did we not travel through TimeSpace into Ancient Arabia? What else happened as you touched the dreamsilk?’

  ‘We were talking,’ said Cy. ‘You were telling me about a friend of yours, a storyteller?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said the Dream Master. ‘I remember now. I was speaking of the most famed daughter of ancient Arabia, the great Teller of Tales herself.’

  ‘That’s right!’ said Cy excitedly. ‘I asked you who was the Arabian princess who told tall tales to save her life? And you said, “The Master Storyteller was—” . . .’

  ‘Mightyful Magnificence!’ the Dream Master interrupted. ‘It cannot be!’ A look of awe appeared on his face. ‘Did we make contact with the Princess without Peer? With the Great One herself?’ He frowned in concentration. ‘If it is true, then that would explain why your story was overpowered by another more powerful storyteller.’

  All at once Cy recalled the name that he was struggling to remember. ‘I know who you were talking about!’ he cried out in excitement. ‘It was a princess called Shahr-Azad!’

  Then he stopped, and gripping the Dream Master’s arm, Cy nodded at the dreamsilk in his hand. It had suddenly changed shape and now fluctuated and thrummed with life. At the same moment, from inside the carpet, in the far corner of Cy’s room came a female voice.

  ‘Who speaks my name?’

  IN FRONT OF the startled gaze of Cy and his Dream Master, the carpet in the corner of Cy’s room slowly unrolled and out tumbled a young woman. She was wearing a white satin blouse under a black short sleeveless jacket, red baggy trousers and silver sequinned slippers.

  ‘Omigosh!’ said Cy. ‘Omigollygosh!’

  The girl rose to her feet and looked around her. ‘Who called my name?’ she repeated.

  ‘Shahr-Azad?’ Cy’s voice came out in a squeak.

  ‘Mighty Sultan, I salute you.’ Shahr-Azad bent her head and made a graceful salaam in front of Cy.

  ‘He’s not a sultan,’ said the Dream Master, rudely pushing Cy aside.

  Shahr-Azad looked from the Dream Master to Cy and back again. ‘But he was the one I heard call. He is the Sultan of my Story, Master of my Dream.’

  ‘With respect, O great Princess,’ the Dream Master bowed low before Shahr-Azad. ‘With the greatest respect. This is no Dream Master. He is but a boy.’

  ‘Yet it was he who spoke my name,’ Shahr-Azad insisted. ‘He is the Dream Master who summoned me.’

  ‘He has no skilled mastery of dreams,’ Cy’s Dream Master protested. ‘His dreamsilk is not yet a dreamcloak.’

  The Dream Master pointed at Cy’s dreamsilk. The square of material covering Cy’s hand was the size of a very large handkerchief. ‘It’s a travesty of a cloak,’ said the Dream Master, ‘it’s an apology of a cloak, it’s an excuse for a cloak. It’s, it’s, it’s not a proper cloak . . . like mine.’

  Shahr-Azad gazed kindly at the Dream Master. She looked him over from heels to head. ‘Small is beautiful.’

  ‘Hurrumph.’ The Dream Master cleared his throat. ‘Princess, that is not the point. It is I, not he, who is a Dream Master.’

  Shahr-Azad moved closer to the Dream Master and the smell of musk and oranges floated with her as she walked. As she passed, Cy noticed that her eyes were deepest violet. She gazed intently at the Dream Master.

  ‘We have met before,’ she murmured. ‘I remember now. You helped me so much with my stories to begin with. You were the great Master of Suspense.’

  The Dream Master made a gesture of dismissal with his hand

  ‘It was nothing,’ he said.

  ‘And you are the boy’s teacher,’ Shahr-Azad went on, ‘so he will learn how to use his dreamcloak well.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a proper dreamcloak,’ said the Dream Master. ‘Only a piece of mine which came off in his hand.’

  Shahr-Azad touched the fragile softness of Cy’s piece of dreamcloak. ‘It may have been torn from yours but this piece is no longer part of your dreamcloak. It is his. He owns it. It owns him.’ She turned to the Dream Master. ‘You cannot hide his destiny from him, mighty Dream Lord that you are.’

  ‘I did not intend to, great Princess. But he is not ready. He needs to be prepared.’

  ‘You must teach him.’

  ‘He is a very . . . challenging pupil.’ The Dream Master gritted his teeth. ‘His memory is erratic. For instance, it is likely that he cannot remember what he ate for dinner tonight.’

  ‘I can so remember,’ said Cy. ‘It was . . . er, well . . . it was good anyway.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ The Dream Master appealed to Shahr-Azad.

  Shahr-Azad smiled. ‘I will help teach the boy.’

  ‘You will?’

  Cy noticed that the soppy look had appeared again on the face of his Dream Master.

  ‘His ignorance is appalling.’

  ‘Er,’ said Cy, scrunching up his dreamsilk and shoving it into the pocket of his shirt. ‘This isn’t meant to be impolite, but I don’t know who you are . . . exactly.’

  ‘I am Shahr-Azad. Wife to King Shahriyar. Teller of many wondrous tales.’ The Princess of Arabia bowed down before Cy. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Cy,’ said Cy. ‘I am Cy. Short for Cyrus. Cyrus Peters.’ Cy returned Shahr-Azad’s bow with one of his own.

  Shahr-Azad went over to the tall straw storage basket that Cy had been searching through earlier. ‘This reminds me of a story I once told about a gentleman called Ali-Baba . . .’ She glanced at Cy, and he again felt the waft of her perfume. ‘Would you like to hear it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cy.

  ‘No,’ said the Dream Master. He bowed and spoke apologetically. ‘Best to save it for another Time, Princess. At the moment we must find a way to enable you to return to your own TimeSpace.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Shahr-Azad. ‘First we should explain to this boy who I am, as he is curious to know . . .’ she smiled, ‘exactly.’

  ‘Shahr-Azad,’ said the Dream Master to Cy. ‘Teller of Tales. Princess of far Arabia. Storyteller Superlative.’ Suddenly he scowled and said crossly, ‘It is an absolute indictment of your education system that you do not know who Shahr-Azad is. What are your teachers doing all day?’

  ‘Tests,’ said Cy.

  ‘Tests?’

  ‘Tests,’ Cy repeated firmly. ‘Tests. Tests. Tests. And more tests. The teachers prepare the tests. Then they prepare us to take the tests. Then we do the tests. Then the teachers mark the tests. Then the teachers have to write reports about the tests. By the time they’ve finished doing all that it’s time for them to start the next lot of tests.’

  ‘What about stories?’ asked Shahr-Azad. ‘When do you hear the stories?’

  ‘Oh, we study stories,’ said Cy.

  ‘Study them!’ exclaimed Shahr-Azad. ‘Stories are for listening to, or reading. How does one study a story?’

  ‘Everybody has to learn when to put a capital letter, and where a comma goes.’

  ‘What has that got to do with the heart of a story?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Cy hesitated.
‘Em . . . I suppose it’s useful. And we do tasks to find out about the story. We compare and contrast different ones.’

  ‘Compare and contrast?’ Shahr-Azad raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean unfavourably?’

  ‘Well, like,’ Cy stumbled. ‘You know . . . criticize how the writer has used the language. Sometimes we don’t even see the original piece to begin with. It’s been changed. And we have to work on that extract. Words have been left out or altered—’

  ‘What!’ cried Shahr-Azad. ‘How can you learn to love the story if it has been spoiled or reduced before you even see it? Why do you do this?’

  ‘Well, then we suggest alternative words, like other adjectives . . .’

  Shahr-Azad shook her head sadly.

  ‘ . . . and then we revise and extend,’ Cy finished lamely.

  ‘What is it that they actually want you to do to the stories?’ asked Shahr-Azad.

  ‘Dissect them,’ said Cy.

  ‘Dissect them?’ Shahr-Azad said faintly. ‘Dissect stories?’ She gazed in horror at the Dream Master. ‘This is indeed a land of barbarians that I have been brought to.’

  The Dream Master nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘We must never forget the value of a story,’ said Shahr-Azad passionately. ‘The ability of humans to empathize is unique. Within a story we place ourselves in the shoes, in the minds of someone else. A story takes you where you have never been. Here . . .’ she placed her hand on her head, ‘and here . . .’ she placed her hand on her heart, ‘to know a different situation, to feel the emotions of another. In this Time, do they not know the importance of a story?’

  ‘I think they have forgotten,’ said the Dream Master. ‘Whereas you, illustrious Princess, never forgot their significance.’ He made a deep bow to Shahr-Azad and turned to Cy. ‘The Princess Shahr-Azad’s husband, a certain King Shahriyar was married many times before meeting her. And he had a habit of dispensing with each new wife the morning after their wedding. He married a wife one day, and the next he beheaded her. He did this many times until the brave and noble Shahr-Azad offered herself as his wife to prevent him executing any more young girls. To capture his attention and stay alive, on the first night she begins a story, but does not complete it. The King delays her execution in order to hear the end of the story. The next night the Princess completes that story and begins another. The King is bewitched and must hear the end of this one too. So night by night, and day by day, Shahr-Azad tells her tales and weaves her spell.’

  The Dream Master bowed once more and Shahr-Azad inclined her head. ‘Her stories are the most pleasing, amusing, confusing, frightening and wise.’

  ‘Does a magic carpet feature in any of them?’ asked Cy.

  Shahr-Azad’s own eyes followed Cy’s gaze to where the red rug lay in the corner of the room. ‘Ah. You have never flown upon a magic carpet?’

  Cy shook his head.

  ‘Would you like to?’

  Before Cy had the chance to reply there was a thunderous knocking on the door of his bedroom. Then Cy heard his older sister Lauren’s voice shouting from outside.

  ‘What are you up to in there, Cyberboy? Open up and let me in!’

  CY HARDLY HAD time to bundle Shahr-Azad into his clothes cupboard before the bedroom door crashed open, pinning the Dream Master behind it.

  Cy’s older sister Lauren stood in the doorway. ‘Mum says you’ve got the big storage basket from the attic in here.’

  ‘Beat it!’ cried Cy.

  ‘What do want from it?’ demanded Lauren.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ said Cy. ‘Get out of my room.’

  ‘I need that basket,’ said Lauren.

  ‘I’ve not finished with it yet,’ said Cy. ‘My friends are coming over and I want to look through it first.’

  ‘So are mine,’ said Lauren. ‘Baz, Cartwheel and I are forming a girl band to take part in the TALENT TV competition. There are lots of prizes to be won. Loads of CD tokens for the best performers in these heats. Fame and fortune for those who make it to the regional finals. Solid gold medals for the national winners! We’re having a rehearsal this afternoon and I need to find some real funky gear.’

  Cy shuddered at the thought of Lauren and her friends getting together in his house. Noisy, moody, unpredictable Lauren and her two friends, Baz and Cartwheel, were a major pain in his life. Cy often talked with his friends at school about the trouble they had with brothers and sisters, and older siblings in particular. Even Basra, who had six in his family and had a lot to put up with, agreed that Cy’s sister Lauren was a particular problem.

  ‘It’s because Lauren’s in her teenage years,’ Cy’s dad had once reassured him when Lauren had spent a full fifteen minutes screeching on at Cy for borrowing a pencil from her room without asking. ‘It’s a phase your sister is going through. It will pass. She’ll grow out of it.’ But Cy could tell by the look on his dad’s face and the tone of his voice that he wasn’t totally convinced about this himself.

  ‘Scram!’ Cy told Lauren again.

  ‘Oh, I get it!’ Lauren advanced into Cy’s room. ‘You’re going to enter the TALENT TV competition too! Well, you and your amateur amigos had better find another place to practise whatever pathetic performance you’re putting together. We don’t want you lot getting in our way.’

  ‘I’d rather be somewhere else if you and your horrible mates are going to be here,’ said Cy. ‘I’ll give you the basket when I’ve finished with it.’

  ‘I want it now,’ said Lauren.

  ‘I’ve already told you I’m not finished with it yet.’

  ‘Right . . .’ Lauren smiled a nasty smile. ‘I suppose I could always borrow something of yours.’

  ‘Get away from there!’ Cy shouted as his sister moved towards the cupboard in his bedroom. He leaped across the room and stood in front of the cupboard door. ‘Beat it!!!’ he yelled at the top of his voice as Lauren reached past him and put her hand on the door handle.

  ‘Oh, be quiet,’ said Lauren. ‘You’ll have Mum and Dad up here and then both of us will be in trouble.’

  ‘It’s you that charged into my room uninvited,’ said Cy. ‘I got the basket first and I haven’t finished looking through it yet.’

  ‘OK,’ said Lauren. ‘You sort out what you want. I’ll wait.’ And she sat down on Cy’s bed.

  Cy’s eyes flicked desperately from his bedroom door to his cupboard door to Lauren, who was now watching him closely.

  ‘Here, take it,’ he said, and he pushed the basket towards his sister with his foot. ‘Go on. It’s yours.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Lauren pleasantly. ‘Suddenly you’re being very helpful and nice.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You want me out of your room. Why?’

  ‘I always want you out of my room,’ said Cy.

  Lauren stared at her brother. ‘There’s an odd pong in here. Have you been experimenting with a chemistry set?’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘What are you up to in here, Cyberboy?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cy.

  ‘Ah . . .’ said Lauren. ‘The famous “nothing” answer. Which means that you are up to mischief.’ She looked round Cy’s room. ‘Have you got something hidden in here that you don’t want anyone else to see.’

  Cy pulled some clothes and other objects from the top of the straw basket. ‘There. I’ve chosen what I want. You have the rest.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Lauren said in a sugary sweet voice. ‘I insist that you look through every single thing and select what you need.’ She folded her arms and grinned wickedly. ‘I’ll wait patiently until you’ve done that.’

  Cy picked up the basket and thrust it at his sister. ‘Here! Take the whole thing, and beat it.’

  ‘No, darling bruv—’ Lauren began, when suddenly her mobile phone bleeped and the front doorbell rang simultaneously.

  Lauren pulled her mobile from her pocket, checked her phone screen and stood up. ‘That’s Baz and Cartwheel at the front door.’
She took the basket from Cy. ‘Incidentally,’ she added as she marched out of the room, ‘there is no way that you lot are going to win the TALENT TV competition.’

  Cy slammed the door behind his sister.

  The Dream Master unpeeled himself from the wall where he had been flattened by the force of Lauren’s entry into the room.

  ‘Your sister—’ he began.

  ‘I know. I know,’ said Cy.

  ‘– and her friends,’ the Dream Master continued, ‘defy reason. Have I got this right? Baz and Cartwheel telephone to tell her they are at the front door at the same moment as ringing the front doorbell?’

  ‘Yup,’ said Cy. ‘Where were we?’

  Cy and his Dream Master looked at each other.

  ‘The Princess!’ yelped Cy and leaped to open up his cupboard. Out stepped the Princess Shahr-Azad. Cy gulped. Over the top of her filmy blouse and short waistcoat Shahr-Azad had put on Cy’s Frankenstein T-shirt.

  ‘This I like,’ she said, posing in front of the mirror on Cy’s wall.

  ‘Princess,’ the Dream Master spoke gently to Shahr-Azad. ‘We must now arrange for you to leave.’

  ‘Mmmm . . .’ said Shahr-Azad. ‘This TALENT TV competition, the one that I overheard your sister speak of . . .’ Shahr-Azad spoke slowly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a special TV company that’s touring the country searching for new talent. I suppose it’s another Reality TV show. They’re in our area this week and people go along and perform what they think they might be good at,’ said Cy. ‘Singing, dancing, juggling acts, anything you’ve a talent for.’

  ‘Your sister, Lauren, said there was much prestige in winning it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cy. He picked up his piece of dreamsilk. ‘Now, I’ll try to concentrate my thoughts and return you to your own TimeSpace.’

  ‘Fame . . .’ said Shahr-Azad.

  ‘Which you do not need,’ said the Dream Master.

  ‘Money . . . Gold . . . Your sister . . . mentioned gold.’

  ‘You are richer by far than any gold that you might find here,’ said the Dream Master in a distinctly worried voice.