by Alyson Noel
But Mort, sensing my growing excitement, was quick to correct me. His expression gone suddenly careful, guarded, he said, “Now don’t go getting any ideas.” He shot me a stern look. “That was all a while ago. Way back before I knew any better. While nothing’s exactly forbidden per se … well, that kind of thing, those earth plane visits, they’re not exactly encouraged either. Besides, all it usually amounts to is a big waste of time. Other than dogs and little kids, most people can’t see us.”
He went on and on, but I was no longer listening. I was still stuck on the part when he said nothing was forbidden.
Was it true?
Could it possibly be?
And if so, does that mean Bodhi had lied to me?
“See, the thing is,” Mort continued, his voice pitching louder, invading my thoughts. “They don’t want us interfering too much. Each soul, each person, has to find their own way—learn their own lessons. And let’s face it, most people only learn the hard way. No one ever volunteers for change. Even when the situation they’re in makes them unhappy, most people would rather stick with the unhappy they know, than take a chance on something unknown. And I’ll tell ya from experience that it’s not an easy thing to watch. But, in the end, it’s all for the best. It’s all those rough bits that make us stronger. The tough stuff makes us grow and mature. Which is why you can’t go around protecting everyone from the world that they live in. You have to let them learn to navigate it all on their own. If you interfere, if you don’t let them find their own way, you’ll stunt them, keep them from learning, progressing. And I’ll tell you right now, that sort of thing leads to no good.”
I nodded as though I understood every word, as though I agreed wholeheartedly. Though, the truth is, my gaze was unsteady, unfocused, as a blur of thoughts and images swirled through my head.
“And, as you’ll soon see, they’re very careful to regulate that sort of well-intentioned interference when it comes to dream visitations. Though there are ways to get around it, the truth is, it’s rarely worth the bother. It requires loads of complicated symbolism, and for the most part, people either can’t remember it, or worse, they muck it all up when they try to interpret it. I gave all that up a while ago. It just got too frustrating. Now I just pop in when I can, try to send a little comfort and love, and leave it at that.”
“And does it work?” I asked, remembering what I overheard Mort saying to his friend the first time I saw them. How he often visited his grieving wife in her dreams, wanting her to know he was A-okay. But the moment she woke up, she shrugged it off—convinced herself it wasn’t real. Just something her brain cooked up to make her feel good.
I looked at him, waiting for an answer, but then the train came to a halt, the doors sprang wide open, and Mort looked at me and said, “This is it. Dreamland. We’re here.”
8
It probably doesn’t make much sense to say: “It’s not what I thought it would be,” about a place you never really thought about before. And yet, those were the first words that sprang to mind when I gazed upon the big, sparkly, half moon–shaped sign that read: WELCOME TO DREAMLAND.
It wasn’t at all like I’d thought.
I guess I was expecting it to be more like a movie theater. A big dark room full of chairs with cup holders punched into the arms, and a large, wide screen projecting all kinds of crazy, mixed-up images that somehow found their way to the dreamer.
But instead, I was greeted by a tall iron gate and a glass-enclosed guardhouse with a very serious-looking guard who studied us closely.
Mort made his way forward, said a quick and friendly hello, then patiently waited, thumbs hitched into his belt loops, humming an unfamiliar tune, as the guard gave him a thorough once-over. Tapping the tip of his pointy red pen along the edge of a long sheet of paper until he found what he was looking for, placed a thick check mark beside it, then shot Mort another stern look as he waved him right in. And even though Buttercup and I were quick on Mort’s heels, hoping to sneak in alongside him, it seems Buttercup was quicker than I was.
The second my foot tried to sneak its way in, the gate slammed closed before me, as the guard glared and said, “State your name and your business, please.”
I gulped, gazed longingly at my friends who were standing where I needed to be, mumbling a quick: “Uh, my name is Riley Bloom.” Trying my best not to fiddle with my fingers, chew my hair, twitch my knee, or engage in any other kind of nervous giveaway as I watched him flick his pen down the long sheet of paper. “As for my business …” I arranged my face into what I hoped resembled a pleasant smile, thinking a little friendliness might help speed things along. “Well, I’m hoping to send someone a dream.”
Mort gasped, wheezed, cleared his throat in a way that was so much louder than necessary. And when my eyes found his, I knew just what he was up to—he was trying to divert the attention from me.
Although it may have seemed as though I hadn’t really said much of anything, apparently what I had said was enough to keep me from entering.
But it was too late. The guard had already narrowed his eyes, was already in the middle of saying, “Excuse me? What did you just say?”
He leaned forward, pressing toward me in a way that, well, had I still been alive would’ve made me blush crimson. Though, as it was, I just stood there all bug-eyed and mute, replaying my words, unable to pinpoint just where I’d failed.
I glanced at Mort, hoping he could help, but from the resigned look in his eyes, I was all on my own.
“Um, what I meant was that I’m here to send someone a dream.” Already cringing well before the words were all out. Seeing the guard’s mouth go all twisty and grim, as Mort just sighed and covered his face with his hands. “I mean, maybe I’m not familiar with the lingo, maybe I don’t know all the correct terms, but all I want to do is …”
Dream visitation. Tell him you’re here for a dream visitation!
Although it seemed like the thought just randomly popped into my head, I knew there was nothing random about it. Not even close. The words came with Mort’s unmistakable East Coast accent. It wasn’t so much a telepathic message, as an order I’d better seriously follow if I wanted to be on the same side of the gate as Buttercup and him.
“I just want to, uh, visit someone in a dream,” I said, holding the smile that was growing so stiff it made my cheeks sting. “You know, like a dream visitation, that’s all.”
The guard looked at me, his face still stern. Holding his silence for so long, I was just about to cut my losses and leave, when he said, “So why didn’t you say so?” He shook his head, scribbled my name at the bottom of his list before placing a fat red check mark beside it. “And just so you know, for the record, we don’t create dreams here, young lady. Dreamweaving hasn’t taken place for …” He frowned, gazed into the distance as though studying an invisible calendar only he could see. “Well … let’s just say it’s no longer done. Though, if you’re interested in a dream jump, well, then you’ve come to the right place.” He smiled brightly, his eyes shining, his cheeks widening—the change so dramatic, so startling, he looked like an entirely different person. “Only a few hours ’til closing though. Not sure if they’ll get to you today. But just in case, you better wear this.”
He slid me a badge that I immediately attached to my tee. The gate opened before me as I wondered how a place like this could actually close, when back home on the earth plane, people were dreaming in all different time zones. Loads of people heading for sleep just as a whole other load were starting their day. But knowing better than to push it, I decided to just shrug and smile and add it to the long list of things that didn’t make any sense.
No sooner was I safely inside, when a heavily accented voice said, “Gah! Who is this wonder? What is this vision I see here before me?”
I turned toward the voice, curious to see whom it belonged to. Noticing the way Mort stepped quickly aside, his face full of awe, as he made way for a short, rotund man with a wispy goa
tee and dark glossy hair that appeared solid black, aside from the thick white skunk stripe that fell down the front.
The man strode closer, the legs of his stretchy riding pants rubbing ominously together, as his knee-high boots smacked hard against the concrete in a chorus of doom. I narrowed my gaze on his tight blue shirt, noting how the buttons were this close to popping, while his silk, paisley scarf twisted loosely around his neck, once, twice, before floating behind him like a swirl of hazy jetstream.
And the next thing I knew, he was standing before us, hand clutched to his chest as he said, “Aw, but she is perfetto! Perfection—I say! Hurry now, vite-vite—there is no time to waste!”
I paused, looking to Mort for guidance, unsure what to do. After the ordeal with the guard I was afraid of saying or doing anything wrong.
But a second later, the strange little man was tugging on my sleeve, pulling me toward him as he said, “You must come—and quickly! She is just what I have asked for! A gift that has arrived—how do you say? In the very nick of time! How did you know that I needed you now?” He glanced my way, eyebrow arched high, not allowing any time to reply before he waved his hand before him and said, “Never mind! I do not question the how—I accept this gift as it is. There is no time to waste—no time at all! Just, please, this must be worn—” He thrust a pair of pristine white gossamer wings into my arms. “Now, quickly, you must follow, vite-vite! We must not delay!”
I rushed alongside him, bolted over a wide swath of concrete, over a winding trail of grass, followed by a path of crumbly asphalt. Going right past a big, surprisingly run-down, abandoned building, slowing my pace as I struggled to get the wings securely placed on my back. Having no idea what they might be for, but so happy to be moving away from the gate I decided not to ask.
“I thought it was over. I was sure I would be forced to compromise—something of which I, Balthazar, am not fond, not fond at all.” He glanced at Buttercup, smiling brightly as he added, “A dream is a delicate recipe—consisting of only the purest ingredients. A dream must be handled with great care. Like soufflé!” He clapped his hands together, delighted with his own metaphor. “A delicate balance with no room for substitutes. I was all out of options, I was this close to leaving—” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, held it high over his shoulder so that Buttercup, Mort, and I could all see. “I think to myself: Balthazar, maybe this time you really do quit. Maybe now is when you retire for good! And then, the very next moment, what do I see?”
He stopped so abruptly I nearly crashed into his side, and it took a moment to realize he was actually awaiting a reply.
I smiled serenely, using the Mona Lisa as my guide. My chin lowered, eyes downcast, voice quiet and humbled as I said, “I am honored to be of service. I do have a very strange knack for showing up at just the right time.”
I paused, swaddled in the comfort of feeling rather pleased with myself. Then I lifted my eyes to meet his, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t exactly me that he found so magnifico and perfetto.
Nope, it wasn’t me at all.
It was Buttercup that had him enthralled.
Balthazar squinted as though seeing me for the very first time, which, I soon realized, he was.
“What is this?” He scoffed, face creased into a scowl as he yanked away the wings he’d thrust at me earlier. “You make joke with me? Is that it? Balthazar has great sense of humor, everyone agrees. But now is not time for jokes! Balthazar has very important work! The dreamer will awaken if we do not move quickly—all will be lost!” He shook his head, muttered under his breath, and struggled to place the wings onto a very unhappy, not-so-cooperative Buttercup.
Still feeling a little annoyed by the way I’d been treated, the way I’d come in second place to my dog, I placed my hands on my hips and said, “Um, okay, but just so you know, Buttercup is a he, not a she. Also, he doesn’t need wings to fly, he can manage just fine on his own.”
Balthazar’s eyes grew wide, and then wider still. Hardly able to believe his good fortune as he grabbed hold of Buttercup’s collar and ran, leaving Mort and me to struggle to catch up with them.
“Balthazar has an artistic temperament,” Mort told me, his words punctuated by the sound of his black dress shoes pounding the asphalt. “He can get a bit … testy at times, but that’s only because he’s such a perfectionist. He has vision. Remarkable vision. He’s a master. The absolute best. No one can handle a dream jump like him. He’s just as big a legend Here as he was on the earth plane. Not to worry, Buttercup is in good hands.”
“But who is Balthazar?” I asked, choosing to slow, no longer trying to keep up their pace. Mort shot me a strange look then pointed at the fading figure ahead, but I just shook my head and said, “No, what I meant was, who is he? What does he do here?”
Mort turned, brows quirked in disbelief. “Balthazar runs the place! Has for years. Back when he was alive, he was one of the most celebrated directors of all time. Got a shelf full of Oscars to prove it. Now that he’s Here he oversees all the dream jumps. Has a handful of assistant directors to help him, but make no mistake, he’s in charge. You got a dream visitation in mind, you gotta go through him. He’s your only hope. He decides who makes the cut.”
9
“She is a natural. She has done this before, no?”
I gazed down the tip of Balthazar’s pointing finger, watching Buttercup take flight, soaring back and forth across a set arranged to look like a beautiful enchanted garden—complete with blooming trees, a sparkling lawn, and a glistening lake populated by a small group of black and white swans.
“He,” I said, my voice more than a little testy, maybe too testy. But still, how many times would I be forced to say it before he understood? “Buttercup is a he,” I repeated, but it was no use, my words fell on deaf ears. Balthazar merely waved it away, jumped from his chair, and motioned for Buttercup to soar higher, for the swans to glide faster, as a guy who looked to be in his twenties walked hand in hand with a girl, whispering softly into her ear.
I hoisted myself onto the director’s chair an assistant had brought me, crossing one leg over the other, and turning to Mort, just about to ask him a question when he shook his head and pointed toward the sign overhead with the bright red letters that read: SILENCE! DREAM IN PROGRESS!
Left with no choice but to shelve all my questions ’til later, I took a good look around, taking in the hive of activity, the sheer amount of work it took to make a dream happen. It was surprising to say the least.
Up until then I’d always assumed that dreams were … well … a whole lot simpler than what I saw unfolding before me. I always assumed they were woven from remnants of random thoughts and experiences that happened during the day—bits and pieces of things seen and heard, mixed in with mere figments of the imagination. All of it sort of swirling together like some kind of fantastical, subconscious soup. Or at least that was the gist of the dream interpretation book Ever got me one year for Christmas. But according to what I saw happening in Dreamland, that book was dead wrong.
It was a production.
Like a major, big-time production.
Reminding me of the time my class took a field trip to see an opera in Portland, not long before I died.
Just like the opera, the set was elaborate, carefully crafted, containing a whole crew of actors, including my dog, who continued to fly overhead. Yet there was also a whole crew of people working off the stage too. Including costume designers, makeup artists, and hair stylists, as well as lighting technicians, a stunt person or two, and a whole team that, from what I could see, were in charge of the special effects.
Also like the opera, there was a pit at the edge of the stage where the orchestra sat. A small group of musicians clutching a strange variety of horns, and cans, and chains, and, yeah, some even had the kind of musical instruments you might expect—all of them keeping a close eye on Balthazar—awaiting their signal, to make just the right sound, at just the right moment.
It was amazing.
Absolutely and completely amazing.
Watching it all unfold right before me, well, I couldn’t help but take a quick mental inventory of all the old dreams I remembered from my past, unable to see them the same way I once had.
Though unlike the opera, it seemed it was over before it could really get started. And the next thing I knew Balthazar leaped from his chair and shouted, “She’s awake! That’s a wrap! Good work, everyone!”
The girl vanished—like, one second she was there and the next, not. And while the crew busied themselves with clearing the stage and dismantling the set, the guy wiped the tears from his eyes and profusely thanked Balthazar—telling him that for the first time since his death, he felt like he’d truly gotten through to his grieving fiancée.
Buttercup bounded toward the pile of doggy biscuits Balthazar held in his hand. All puffed up and self-satisfied with his performance, his newfound star power, he went about the business of busily wolfing them down, as Balthazar smiled and said, “Here he is—the true star of this show!” Then looking at me, he added, “I am in your debt. Because of your dog, the dream was saved. The girl was dreaming of a beautiful field of sparkling lakes, black and white swans, and, believe it or not, angelic, flying dogs. And, as I had none on hand, when you showed up when you did—well, it saved the entire production. So please, tell me, how can I ever repay you?”
I pressed my lips together, struggled to make sense of his words. What he’d just said was entirely different from what I thought I’d just witnessed.
“Wait—” I squinted, shook my head. “You mean to say that you didn’t actually create that dream?” I gazed right at him, noting how he was so short, he was exactly eye level with me. “Are you saying that you merely re-created a dream that was already in progress?” My mind ran with the concept—it was an even bigger feat than I’d imagined.
