Dreamrider

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, keeping my voice low. ‘You don’t have to look after me all the time, you know. I’m not a charity case. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Get over yourself, will you?’ She flicked hair out from under her chin. Irritation flashed in her eyes. ‘If I didn’t want to talk to you, I wouldn’t. Okay?’

  I kept my head down. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So what was old Atkins going on about?’

  ‘The Social.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not my kind of thing.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. Honest. It’s like one of the biggest things at Millways, the Year 10 Social. Everyone goes. And it’s not one of those daggy things with a crap DJ and about five people dancing while the others just stand around. I’m serious. It’s planned by the SRC and everything. Great music, great food. And it’s themed this year.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘Yeah. Fright Night. Doesn’t have to be anything complicated. You know, just a bit of fake blood, dagger in the head sort of thing. Look, it sounds crap, the way I’m explaining it, but it isn’t. It’s fun. You should come.’

  Leah was all animated. I didn’t want to give the impression I was boring.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t think, just say yes. And if you’re worried that I’ll be at your side the entire time, pestering you, then I promise I won’t. If you want, I’ll ignore you the whole night. Okay?’

  She smiled at me and I smiled back. I loved her smile. It came from deep inside.

  ‘Leah?’ I said. ‘What is it with Mr Atkins?’

  ‘Mr Atkins? What do you mean? He’s a good guy. A really cool teacher.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s worried about something. I can see it in his eyes.’

  Leah glanced towards the teacher’s desk. Mr Atkins was hunched over a bunch of papers, red pen scribbling furiously, a tic twitching over his right eye. Whatever he was reading, it wasn’t giving him pleasure. I had to smile. Leah sighed. Then she leaned in closer.

  ‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘You are not to repeat this, right? Do you promise, Michael?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, I heard two teachers talking on yard duty. About Mr Atkins’s wife. I think it was about her. I didn’t get all of it, but they said something about cancer and not having much time left. I can’t swear to it, Michael. But it would fit. Mr Atkins has changed recently. Oh, he still has the same personality, but it’s like he has to force it now. As if he’s worried.’

  The bell rang and I didn’t get a chance to reply. I had Science first up and Leah had Art. I paused for a moment in the doorway and looked back at Mr Atkins.

  He was chewing the ends of his glasses again and staring out through the window. Something in his expression suggested that whatever he was seeing was far beyond the school buildings, the oval or the clear blue sky.

  2 .

  At lunchtime I headed for the oval, but Jamie Archer got to me first. He was with a group of mates and I tried to slip past, but he grabbed me by the shirt and pushed me up against the gym wall.

  ‘What’s the rush, Wrenbury?’ he said. ‘You and me have got some shit to settle. When d’ya reckon’d be a good time? Now? After school?’

  I avoided his eyes, but his mates were circling me, eager, expectant. My mouth went dry and sweat trickled down my belly.

  ‘I don’t want trouble,’ I said. I tried to say it with confidence, but my voice was hoarse. It came out trembling with fear. Jamie pushed his face closer to mine. My vision filled with the redness of his hair.

  ‘Don’t you?’ he said, his voice soft. ‘Well, that’s strange. See, I know what happened on the oval yesterday. I saw it. And I don’t care whether you want trouble or not, cos I reckon you got it.’

  ‘Is there a problem here, Mr Archer?’

  Suddenly the circle broke and Mr Atkins was in front of me. Jamie let go of my shirt and carefully brushed me down, as if getting rid of wrinkles.

  ‘No, Sir,’ said Jamie. ‘Just getting acquainted with the new boy. Isn’t that right, new boy?’

  I nodded. Mr Atkins gave a small shake of his head.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. He sounded bright and cheerful, but his eyes told a different story. ‘That is very public-spirited of you, Mr Archer. You embody all that has made Millways what it is today and I won’t forget it. Trust me on that. However, there is only so much bonhomie I can tolerate on my yard duty, so I suggest you and your friends move on now. Spread the good cheer, Jamie.’

  Jamie smiled, but it was thin.

  ‘Sure, Sir. No problem, Sir. Guess I’ll catch you later, eh, new boy?’

  ‘His name is Michael, Mr Archer,’ said Mr Atkins. We watched as Jamie strolled off. He sat on a wall about ten metres away, his friends ranged on either side. They stared back at us.

  ‘Do something, Michael,’ said Mr Atkins. His voice didn’t carry far. ‘Do something.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Sir.’

  I made my way to the tree I had found yesterday. Throughout the walk, eyes were an itch in the small of my back. I sat against the gnarled trunk and unpacked my lunch. Two Tim Tams, but the rest was boring – a salad sandwich, an apple and low-fat rice crackers. I ate slowly, gazing out over the oval. Time passed. Four or five wedge-tailed kites hovered, riding the air lazily. The sky was sharp, the trees were hard-edged, the clouds cut-out shapes. The scene was a child’s drawing, all primary colours.

  One of the kites swooped towards me, and it was a bird in two dimensions. Turning, it was as thin as paper, a black line against impossible blue. I looked at my sandwich. It bulged with meat. I pried open the two halves of bread. The thick slabs of meat were drenched in gravy. I replaced the bread and bit into it. The taste flooded my body with pleasure.

  I brushed crumbs off my lap and stood. What was I going to do with this time? I felt, briefly, the urge to find Jamie, but the moment passed. I’d had enough of violence. Time for something different.

  The school’s administration section was busy, but I passed through it unseen. A filing cabinet in an inner office gave me the address of Atkins, Keith. I memorised it and left. It didn’t take long to find the house, either. It was only a ten-minute walk from school. I stood outside the front gates.

  It was a big house showing signs of age. Paint was peeling from the weatherboards and the garden was sprinkled with weeds. A large dog basked in a pool of sunshine by the front door. There was no sign of anyone. I opened the gate and the dog jumped up, a low growl building in its throat. In real life I would have been frightened. The dog’s hackles rose and its lips curled back, revealing yellow teeth. I’ve always been scared of big dogs, even if they can’t harm me. This one stared right through me, like I was something dimly sensed. It was unnerving. I felt like a ghost. I suppose in a way I was.

  I skirted the dog and knocked on the door. For a while it appeared that no one was home. I knocked again and the sound resounded through the house. I didn’t want to just open the door and go in. Manners are important, even in the Dream. Finally I heard a faint sound from inside. Someone was coming. There was a shuffling sound, as if someone old was moving, slowly and painfully. I thought about leaving then. It’s impossible to intrude on your own dreams, yet that’s how I felt. An intruder. But I didn’t leave.

  The door opened. A thin, frail woman stood like an old person, as if bent by an invisible weight. Her hair was thin, wispy and faded, like something left too long in the sun, but when I looked at her face I knew she couldn’t have been more than fifty. Her skin was baggy, yet it was her eyes that held my attention. She had deep and kind eyes, but the pain under the surface made me flinch. It was like seeing calm water and catching a glimpse of monsters beneath. It was such an arresting face that I stood for some time before I noticed she was watching me with amused patience. I cleared my throat.r />
  ‘Mrs Atkins?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. What can I do for you?’

  ‘My name is Michael Terny, Mrs Atkins. I am one of your husband’s students.’

  She gave a small smile.

  ‘Well, Michael. I’m pleased to meet you, but I think you’ll find my husband is at school. Can I ask why you are not there too?’

  I felt uncomfortable under her gaze. This Dream seemed different from normal. In the early days of lucid dreaming, I hadn’t had much control. The Dream had its own logic and I could only influence minor details. It had been a long time since that had happened. I could shape everything now. True, I would often allow the Dream to flow in the surreal manner of ordinary dreams. But even that was a conscious choice to let go. Not now, though. The dog and Mrs Atkins appeared to be independent of me in some way. It was strange, but I had come this far and I wanted to know what would happen.

  ‘Mrs Atkins, I am not here to see your husband. I have come to see you. To help you.’

  She gave a tired smile, as if a child had said something cute. But it was impossible to take offence.

  ‘Well, Michael, that is very kind of you. I’m not at all sure I need your help, but do come in and tell me more.’ She stood aside and I moved past her into the hall.

  ‘First door on the right,’ she said. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  I went into the living room. There was a couch against the window and a couple of easy chairs, both threadbare. The room was lined with bookcases. Every bit of wall space was taken up with rows and rows of books. It was like a library. I squeezed past the coffee table in front of the couch and sat down. The air was dusty, the smell of musty paper thick in the room. It was wonderful, calm, reassuring.

  I looked at the books on the shelves. Mrs Atkins came in with a teapot and two cups on a tray. She moved carefully, as if afraid of breaking herself, put the tray down and sat with a small sigh. I poured the tea and she didn’t protest. She took a cup, sat back and closed her eyes. There was a bowl of old-fashioned sugar cubes. I liked their hardness beneath my fingers. I put four lumps into my tea. On impulse, I dropped one into the top pocket of my shirt. Mrs Atkins sipped her tea, leaned forward and put the cup back on the coffee table.

  ‘You’re sick,’ I said.

  She gave a small laugh. ‘Well, Michael,’ she said. ‘You’re not wrong there. I think I can safely say that.’

  ‘I can help you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help, Michael. My husband gives me all the help I need.’

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘I mean I can help with your illness.’

  She looked at me and there was a twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘My illness?’ she said. ‘Well, Michael, that is indeed kind of you. But I’m afraid there is not much you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’ve consulted more doctors than you have probably seen in your entire life. So I appreciate your offer, but . . .’

  ‘You have a brain tumour,’ I said.

  The twinkle disappeared. She turned to face me and I saw the beginnings of anger in her eyes.

  ‘Has my husband been talking to you? If he has been talking about me to his students . . .’

  ‘I can see it, Mrs Atkins,’ I said. I could too. There was a dark mass under her skull, above her right eye. ‘If you’ll just sit back and close your eyes, I’ll get rid of it.’

  For a moment I thought her anger was going to flare. Emotions struggled across her face. Then, abruptly, she smiled and her face cleared. Maybe I wanted her to see me as a harmless lunatic. Maybe I’d decided she had nothing left to lose, not even dignity.

  ‘Faith healing, is it, Michael?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes, the smile still there. I put my hands on her skull. It felt frail, as if with only a little pressure I could break through bone and tissue and put my hands on the brain beneath. And that’s what I did. I pressed gently and my hands parted flesh and bone like water. I could feel the tumour beneath my fingers. It felt hard and there was something about it that made my skin crawl.

  I moved my hands around the growth and felt its attachment to the tissue beneath. I could also sense rather than feel the other knots of cancer spreading from it, an infection staining her brain.

  I can’t explain how I did it. In the Dream things work differently. I didn’t tear the cancer away. I willed it to be gone. I put my mind into my hands. Gradually, the tumour separated from the healthy tissue and gathered in my palms. When I was sure I had it all, I removed my hands. The skull flowed beneath my fingers and closed behind them. The whole thing took less than a minute. Mrs Atkins lay with her eyes closed, a dreamy look on her face.

  ‘It’s done, Mrs Atkins,’ I said. ‘It’s gone.’

  She opened her eyes and her expression was dazed. She put her hands slowly to her head. I knew something felt different to her. An expression of wonder passed across her face, like a burden had been lifted. Or maybe something added. Wholeness, perhaps, or a sense of cleanliness where before there had been contamination. She shook her head slightly and her fingers clenched. She stared at me.

  ‘It has gone, Mrs Atkins,’ I said. ‘Believe me.’

  Not that her belief had anything to do with it.

  ‘Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time,’ I said. ‘I’d best get back to school.’

  She rose carefully, but I could tell she was surprised by how easy it was. We walked to the door.

  ‘You’re a strange boy, Michael,’ she said. Then she put out her hand and I shook it. ‘But I want to thank you. Truly.’

  ‘Take care, Mrs Atkins,’ I said.

  I walked off. I needed to get back to my body, lying under a tree on the school oval. I could have done that instantly, but I didn’t feel like it. I walked back slowly, feeling the sunshine on my legs and arms. My body was singing.

  When I reached the edge of the school oval I could see, in the distance, my huddled shape under the tree. I had done this many times, but there was always a jolt, a sense of overwhelming strangeness, when I closed on my sleeping body. I walked on until I was standing over myself. Mounds of flesh hung under my chin. My T-shirt was slightly rucked, exposing rolls of pale belly. I saw myself the way others saw me and I shared their disgust. I was disgusting. That’s why the Dream is so good. I can be what I want to be. Back in that huge, unwieldy body I am trapped. But in the end, there’s never a choice. I always have to return.

  I turned to face what couldn’t be avoided. The glass filled my vision, an expanse of darkness. The urge to reach out and touch its surface was irresistible. In my mind, I could see the ripples I would create, my hand stirring its curve, sinking, finger by finger, into black depths. I could see my hand stretch slowly towards it.

  But I knew what would happen, what always happened. Maybe I got closer this time. It seemed that each Dream brought my fingers closer to the surface, that it was only a matter of time before I would touch it. More – that it was important, even vital, to make contact. The flash of yellow came from the top right-hand corner. My hand flinched as if from a flame. Beads of perspiration broke out on my forehead. My heart raced. The yellow flashed across the glass towards the bottom left-hand corner, then dimmed. In that brief instant, I could see a shape moving within the surface. I felt its panic. Then, with a dull roar, like a far off explosion, the colours pumped towards me – deep orange, mingled with fire-red and harsh, violent yellows. They came in waves, as if to swallow me. I tried to scream, but no sound came. For a moment there was nothing but blazing colours. They swamped the world.

  My body jerked into a sitting position and my eyes snapped open. I felt the stiffness of my limbs. A string of drool was draped over my chin. My body was a frightening weight. I had difficulty raising myself up on an elbow. It always happened like this. It was as if I was in someone else’s body, dragging a strange carcass.

  After a few moments my heart slowed and breathing
became easier. I noticed that someone had pinned a note to the leg of my shorts. It read ‘Beeched whale’. Not Martin, I thought. He wouldn’t make a spelling mistake like that.

  Jamie.

  The oval stretched out around me. I forced my eyes, heavy with sleep, to look at my watch. I had slept through twenty minutes of the afternoon’s first lesson. No one had woken me. Why should they? It must have given them a good laugh. I didn’t feel like laughing. Not when I saw that the oval wasn’t quite deserted. One person was watching as I struggled to my feet, plucking the note from my shorts. Miss Palmer, the Assistant Principal, was walking towards me.

  I hadn’t made the best start at Millways High.

  3 .

  ‘I don’t care that you fell asleep, Michael.’ Miss Palmer ran her hands through her hair. Her eyes were tired. ‘Though, having said that, you need to make sure you’re getting a decent night’s sleep. Are you drinking enough water?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s the note that bothers me. This is exactly the kind of bullying I was talking about. Let me ask you again – do you know who wrote it?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I’ll find out. Even if I have to check the handwriting of every student. I won’t let this behaviour go unpunished in my school.’

  I wanted to tell her to forget it, that a fuss was only going to make my life more difficult. But I didn’t. She kept me in her office until the start of the last lesson. That was okay. I didn’t like the idea of going into class halfway through. So I turned up to SOSE, hoping no one would notice me. No chance. Kids pointed at me, laughed and sniggered. The whole school, it seemed, knew about my lunchtime nap and found it funny. Apart from Leah. She was in my SOSE class and she sat next to me. That was good of her, particularly since her friends were in a group having a good laugh at my expense. It takes courage to be seen with a loser. She leaned towards me.