The Dreamer Chronicles Trilogy Boxed Set Vol I - III: A Sci-Fi Parallel Universe Adventure (The Dreamer Chronicles - Science Fiction For Kids And Adults)

by Robert Scanlon

  There, much better. Now she had something special in the foreground; the conservatory. A place where people she had never met had sat, laughed, drawn, painted and been creative. Maybe people from all around the world.

  She stood back and took a mental picture of the scene, then closed her eyes.

  After a few minutes allowing her mind to surface various creative ideas, she opened her eyes.

  She picked up a pencil and began.

  Within minutes the shapes had already suggested lively movement—a gathering, or a party at an afternoon tea perhaps?—and she was ready to paint. Watercolour this time. She bit her lip. Was today the time to experiment with liquid masking? She decided against it. Today would be pure painting. She swung the rolling table with her palette on the top around, and after selecting a brush, she was soon busy washing in the first of the layers she had imagined for the background.

  Her mother appeared at the entrance to the conservatory, saw Sarina was engrossed, and retreated.

  Hours passed, though Sarina was not aware of the time, only the ambience. Soon she would stop. The natural light-qualities she wanted to capture in her painting had faded into the late afternoon oranges and pinks. But not before she added some important detail to the tea party. A family, she thought, smiling to herself. A happy, smiling family.

  She dipped her brush into a pale green mix on her palette and reached up to the young woman she’d already begun sketching. No sooner had her brush touched the surface, when something in her head ... clicked ... or was it tapped? No, it was a very faint clunk.

  She felt dizzy. She pulled back the brush, straightened, and took a deep inhale. The dizziness subsided a little.

  She approached the canvas again and started filling in the small area with pale green—only she didn’t. The brush wandered around with a mind of its own and left large swathes of green across the tall man she had already painted standing next to the young woman. Sarina stared at the amorphous green shape. In her entire memory of painting, she couldn’t remember one single instant where her hand had not followed her mind.

  She put the brush down, picked up the sponge, and carefully dabbed off the mistake.

  She picked up the brush again and approached the young female figure once more. A bout of dizziness rushed into her head when she tried to put the brush precisely where she wanted; and this time the brush painted a giant zigzag path in green paint down the centre of the canvas.

  She stared at it again.

  What was happening to her?

  She washed the brush in a jar of clean water, and smoothed her hair back while she thought.

  Was her brain failing? Was this it? Was the madness taking hold? Would she soon be speaking in tongues with her head spinning around 360 degrees?

  Her mother appeared at the entrance again, “Sarin—” She stopped when she saw the large green zigzag, puzzled.

  Sarina did her best to gather herself. She needed to take control, so she smiled at her mother. “S’okay, Mum. I think I’ve been going too long and I’m tired. The brush slipped. I’ll clean up and finish for the day.”

  Her mother smiled and nodded. “Perfect timing then. I thought we might wander down to the village together and pick up some of those delicious-looking scones we saw in the bakery. We’ll have a relaxing late afternoon tea. What do you think?”

  Sarina nodded. Yes. Good idea. Some fresh air. And a chance to quiz her mother about her aunts. “Okay. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

  She erased as much of the green zigzag as she could. Watercolour was quite forgiving, and she tried to be positive and rescue her painting. She finished washing the brushes, took off her smock and went to leave the studio. On her way out, something caught her eye on the coffee table.

  The letter Mum had brought from home. And Rona’s brochure. She picked them up. She would look at them on the stroll to the shop.

  They left the cottage and wandered along the narrow lane arm-in-arm, smelling the fresh country air and enjoying the late afternoon light across the old stone walls and hedges. The dizziness had vanished now and she supposed it was exactly what she thought—overdoing her stay at the easel. Who would have thought?

  She unhooked her arm from her mother’s and looked at the envelope. She recognised the writing. Mrs. Gratten, her art teacher. Why was she writing? Her brow creased as she opened the letter.

  Dear Sarina, I hope you are well. By the time you read this, you might be leaving for your retreat, so I hope I have caught you in time.

  This is not public knowledge yet, but I thought you deserve to know. Apparently the people who run the National Artists Breakthrough Competition and the faculty at the Ecole Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts have had some kind of falling out. My contact won’t tell me the details, but the news is not good, however I don’t expect it to affect you: After this intake of competition winners, the Paris School will no longer be accepting any finalists from any competitions. So this one will be your last chance. As I said before, I don’t think it will really affect you, since you are already in the finals, but I thought you deserved to know. Better safe than sorry!

  Have a wonderful time away painting and gearing up for the creative workshop, I will see you on your return!

  Best wishes,

  Angela Gratten

  Sarina stopped in disbelief. She looked up at her mother with wide eyes. “Mum! Mrs Gratten says the school won’t take any more competition winners after this round. What am I to do?”

  Her mother frowned. “What do you mean, ‘what are you to do’? Sarina, you’ll be absolutely fine, your skills are already way ahead—”

  “But what if I’m not? What if I’m ... sick, or something?”

  Her mother rubbed her daughter’s back. “You are a worrywart this holiday aren’t you? You’ll be fine. It’s all worked out so far hasn’t it?”

  Sarina nodded and started to walk on. While that was true, what her mother hadn’t taken into account, and couldn’t take into account because she didn’t know, were these weird turns she’d been having.

  “You’re feeling the pressure, I can see that. Try to relax, darling. I know you, you always paint better when you relax.”

  Easy for you to say, Mum. You and Gran escaped whatever got hold of your aunts.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just thinking the other day. What age were your aunts when they, er ...” she didn’t know quite how to put it, “when they started to show signs of their problems?”

  “My, that’s a bolt from the blue, Sarina? What’s got you thinking about that?”

  “Just curious, Mum.”

  “Hmm. Let me think. I’d say they were not much older than you. At the time, the doctors said it was connected with”—she looked embarrassed—“you know. ‘Girl stuff’. Hormones and growing up.”

  “Do you mean puberty?” Sarina said with a serious expression.

  Her mother laughed. “There’s no mincing words around you, is there? But it’s a myth anyway. Not every girl has troubles at that age.”

  Maybe not. But either way she still had all that to face. Girl stuff. Hormones. Blech.

  She realised she still had Rona’s brochure in her other hand and unfolded it. That’s what she really and truly needed, an attitude to life like Rona’s. Rona wouldn’t let a small matter of dizziness, blackouts or even ‘girl stuff’ get in the way of what she was determined to achieve. Maybe she could steal some of Rona’s optimism by reading her brochure.

  At the top was a delightful photo of Rona smiling at her. Sarina grinned. Rona’s positivity was already working its magic. Below the photo were several paragraphs under the heading: ‘About Rona’. Sarina wondered if Rona was born without a surname, then carried on reading, curious about the woman’s past.

  The text said Rona was an acclaimed artist from a very young age. They had that in common then! She had won a raft of awards and was enrolled into the Royal Academy of Arts in London when she had suffered a
terrible blow. An accident at a railway station had left her lucky to be alive, but she had lost both legs from the knee down.

  Her family had rallied around her recovery, which took more than two years, but the brochure also said that ‘Rona used her art to pull her through. Even though she never attended the Royal Academy of Arts because all her family’s money was directed to her physical rehabilitation and specialists, she is grateful she retained her creative outlet. Without this, she is certain she would never have survived. She is now dedicated to creating opportunities for local artists from her speciality art store in Marlborough.’

  The brochure had a footnote entitled ‘Rona’s philosophy on life’. It was written in the first person.

  ‘I believe in asking for help. My accident happened at a dark time in my life when I had become withdrawn and I cut off from sharing my thoughts and feelings with those around me. I believe when we share, we care. If I had been able to share my issues—my blacking out and the dizzy spells—then I would have gained the help I needed. I am grateful that my art was able to show me the way forward and shine a light on my path, as it does today.’

  Sarina swallowed heavily. Blackouts and dizziness?! The brochure might as well have been a personal message. But what did it mean? Who could she share with? Did this mean she had to be careful around trains?

  She tried to take it all in. Her own blackouts and dizzy spells. The news from Mrs Gratten. Rona’s startling parallel story.

  She took a deep breath. Didn’t they say bad things came in threes? She would need all her optimism to get through this.

  Her mother peered up at the store. A sleek dark-grey car with tinted windows was parked outside. It looked quite out of place in the stone-walled lane and amongst the cute cottages. But that wasn’t what her mother was peering at. Outside the shop was a man in a black suit, wearing sunglasses. He was talking to the store owner, a stout woman wearing a baker’s cap, who was pointing down the lane to Sarina and her mother. The man turned to where she pointed.

  It was Agent Blanchard.

  Bad things obviously came in fours.

  ~~~

  After Agent Blanchard met them at the village bakery, he’d driven them back to the cottage, and stayed for afternoon tea at the insistence of Sarina’s mother.

  “The Professor and Lena are missing, suspected abducted?” Sarina was incredulous. “But I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?”

  Agent Blanchard leaned forward on the table and steepled his hands together. “Nothing directly. But your friend Nathan—”

  “Bah! Nathan? That boy has got hair-brained theories tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. What does he say this time? That we all dream of Lena?”

  Blanchard’s eyes widened momentarily. “Actually, that’s almost exactly what he said. Or, more specifically”—he paused—“that you should try to reach Lena in a dream.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Master Goldberg seems to think you are the most powerful of all the dreamer kids, and by some distance. If anyone can do it, he said, it would be you.”

  Sarina’s mother joined in. “Mr Blanchard, I still don’t understand. Why do you not simply call the police?”

  Agent Blanchard shifted around to look at Sarina’s mother, which twisted his immaculate black suit out of shape. “Mrs Metcalfe, we have a delicate situation. I believe it is best contained to the appropriate specialist authorities.”

  The Agent savoured each word as he spoke; rolled it around a few times, then over-pronounced each syllable. Sarina imagined him reciting poetry and stifled a giggle.

  Her mother nodded. “Well I’m sorry we can’t help you, Mr Blanchard. Sarina is here on a much-needed retreat. In my opinion the poor girl has been terribly stressed, and has experienced several dizzy turns. She needs to rest and reconnect with her art studies and prepare for her creative workshop and competition.”

  Sarina agreed. While she was concerned, of course, about the Professor and Lena, she was sure Agent Blanchard had people far more skilled than her at this sort of thing. She shivered at her mother’s use of the expression, ‘experienced several dizzy turns’ and wondered if she, too, was worried about the possibility of hereditary mental illness. But what her Mother said was true. This time at the cottage was critical, and she had been feeling much better, her work was proof. Mostly. Green zigzags excepted. She opened her mouth to speak, but Agent Blanchard held up his hand.

  “Miss Metcalfe. Believe me, if this was not an emergency, and I thought I could employ our own operatives to solve our problem, I would not be troubling you. But perhaps I can be more open. What I am about to reveal would be considered highly sensitive information, though I am certain the Professor would approve of my sharing it with you.”

  He looked at Sarina and her mother and sighed heavily. “If you agree, then you will be bound by the Official Secrets Act and must not discuss this with anyone who does not have security clearance. If, after you hear what I have to say and choose not to help us, then we will honour your decision. But you must not speak about this with anyone, ever. Am I to proceed?”

  Emergency. Serious. Official Secrets Act. She’d never heard of it, though she was sure Nathan would know all about it. Nathan! Why had he got her involved? She guessed they could hear what the Agent had to say, then get rid of him. He couldn’t force anyone, even with his smart black suit and sunglasses.

  She looked at her mother, who shrugged. She looked back at Agent Blanchard and folded her arms. “We’ll listen.”

  Agent Blanchard nodded. “We believe Professor Harrison was in the middle of some delicate operations with a project he and Master Goldberg were working on. Master Goldberg indicated to me that the machine may have been left in a state of instability, that if left without completing the data routines they had started, it could be ... dangerous.”

  Sarina’s eyes narrowed. “What machine? And honestly, could you stop saying ‘Master Goldberg’? It’s Nathan.”

  Agent Blanchard inclined his head. “Of course, Miss. Nathan. I’ll do my best. But I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the machine. It’s on a need-to-know basis at this time.”

  “I thought we were bound by this Secrets Act thing not to tell anyone?”

  “That is true,” Blanchard said, “but there are ... levels of secrets. Hence the need-to-know. But let me continue. We need to get Professor Harrison back to ensure the machine will remain stable, and of course we are concerned for both his and the girl’s safety. According to Master—ah, Nathan—, we have a window of opportunity of around 24-48 hours before the machine becomes even more unstable. I mean, potentially unstable. It was my understanding that by using your, ah, powers, we might locate Lena more quickly than by more traditional methods.”

  He cleared his throat. “In plain English, Miss—and Mrs—Metcalfe, if we don’t find them soon, we may have a big problem. And I’m not sure we can find them as rapidly as you can.” He fixed his gaze on them both. “Will you consider my request?”

  “You haven’t been quite clear with us, have you, Agent Blanchard?” Sarina was surprised at the hard tone in her own voice. “What you are really saying is that you have a dangerous machine on your hands; and the only person who really knows how to operate it is the Professor and if you don’t get him back soon, then the machine will, not possibly, but definitely become more dangerous.”

  She leaned forward. “Just how dangerous, exactly?”

  Blanchard shifted in his seat and nodded slowly. “That information is on a need-to—”

  “A need-to-know basis. I get it. You want me to give up everything I am passionate about, just to help you stupid boys with your dangerous toys!” Sarina pushed back her chair and stood up. “I will not drop everything and run to your help, just because you asked!” She ran from the dining table and into the conservatory.

  Mrs Metcalfe looked at the Agent, who was pinching his lip and still looking at the door Sarina had ran through. “Mr Blanchard, surely
you can see the stress this is placing on my daughter. Do you have no other option but to bring this upon an already anxious 12-year old girl?”

  He met her gaze. “The situation is serious, Mrs Metcalfe. Serious enough for me to consider any possibility that will save me time.” He rose to leave. “I can see this was not one of them.” He slid the chair back under the table. “Thank you both for your time, and for the delicious scones. No need to get up. I will see myself out.”

  Sarina sat quietly in the conservatory, and watched the last glimmer of daylight sink behind the hills. Nature was so ... peaceful. The thoughts of the Professor and Lena abducted somewhere, and in trouble, disturbed her deeply. Her own troubles played on her mind, and she felt guilty for putting herself first, but this time she had to. If she didn’t get her head straight, madness or no madness, she might miss her one and only opportunity to get into the art school she had set her heart on. Expending her energy on dream-portals? Well everyone knew where that could lead to.

  She thought of bright-eyed Lena, scared, and huddled somewhere with Professor Harrison. Who would abduct them anyway, and why?

  She caught herself from going further. Thinking about them was precisely what she was trying not to do. She heard the front door open and close and supposed Agent Blanchard was leaving. He hadn’t appeared his usual cool self either.

  Her gaze drifted down to a gaily coloured envelope on the coffee table. Lena’s pictures. She smiled, then stopped abruptly. What was she thinking, smiling her head off? The poor girl, what was she going through right now? She grimaced. She wasn’t doing a good job of not thinking about them. She reached down and pulled out the drawings. The one on the top was a pretty, pencilled landscape. She placed it to one side and looked at the one underneath.

  Her heart plunged to her stomach. It was as if someone reached through her chest with a giant hand, and with an icy grip squeezed her lungs tight.

  Standing in the middle of the picture was a clearly-drawn pencil sketch of a large bat-like bird, standing taller than a man.