The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  Dee had begun to count the money at this point. She yelled gleefully to Yvonne who was still on the phone.

  “First-class!”

  That made it easier. They could fly out in the morning.

  “We’ll call your school tomorrow,” Yvonne concluded. “You’ve got a dose of something. You’ll be back in a few days.”

  “You guys are amazing,” said Dana.

  “She said ‘you guys’! Did you hear that?” Dee crowed. “We got to her at last! A fairy Canuck!”

  Dee was pulling out suitcases from a wardrobe and tossing in clothes as she sang.

  My bags are packed, I’m ready to go

  I’m standing here, on your big toe …

  Laurel’s ordeal began shortly after she left Dana at her house. With the girl safely home, Laurel let herself feel the full shock of the news about Gwen. Bending over, she clutched her stomach as the dry retching began. An old wound opened. The guilt of the one left behind. She could hardly believe it was happening to her again. Why was she always losing the ones she loved? It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let her go off without me. Their last argument came home to haunt her. The unkind words she had said. Her impatience. She hadn’t apologized, even though she knew her friend deserved better.

  Blinded by tears, Laurel stumbled down the street. Where was Gwen? What terrible thing had happened to her? It was when she passed the old convent that Laurel sensed suddenly that she was being followed. Turning quickly, she caught sight of a gaunt figure before he stepped behind a tree. Her heart jumped. She was being stalked! Instinctively she reached for the protective charms in her pocket, then remembered there were none. She quickened her pace. The day was still bright. She wasn’t afraid. Yet. When she reached the busy thoroughfare of Bloor Street, she hurried to join the safety of the crowds. He wouldn’t dare to attack her in public, would he?

  At the corner of Bloor and Spadina, a young Native man had set up a stall to sell dream-catchers and beadwork. He was darkly handsome, with an easygoing smile. A sky-blue shirt matched his denim jeans, and his black hair was tied back in a ponytail, shining in the late sunlight. Snakeskin boots shod his feet.

  Laurel stopped at the stall, feigning interest in the goods, to give herself the chance to look over her shoulder. She gasped audibly. There he was! A tall ragged man, with a disfigured face. As soon as she spied him, he stepped into a doorway, but not before she had caught the hatred that burned in his eyes.

  She was about to rush away when the Native seller stopped her.

  “Take this,” he said quietly. Leaning toward her, he slipped a necklace over her head. The leather string held a smooth white pebble. “Moonstone. Protects the female.”

  Flustered, Laurel reached for her purse, but he waved his hand.

  “The hunter teaches the prey to run. Go,” he urged her.

  She didn’t need to be told twice. Laurel raced down the street.

  • • •

  Rushing away, Laurel didn’t see her champion block Crowley’s path.

  “See something you like?” said the seller, indicating his merchandise.

  Crowley’s face twisted with fury. He spat out the words. “Be gone, Ojibwa.”

  The young man’s eyes flashed. His voice was like a roll of thunder.

  “If you’re gonna use names, Shadow, try to get it right.”

  Crowley jerked backward as if struck by a blow.

  Recognition passed between them like lightning before a storm.

  “Nanabush!” hissed Crowley.

  “Yeah, that would do. Or Nanabozho. Or, well, there’s a lot more, but what do you care, eh?”

  “I could crush you with—”

  “I don’t think so. You got no power over me or my people.”

  “I will call those who do.”

  “Go ahead. I’m in the mood for a fight. It’s been a lousy day. No sales.”

  Crowley looked as if he might explode with rage, then he glanced down the street. Laurel was nowhere to be seen. With an exasperated cry, he dodged past Nanabozho and sped away.

  • • •

  Back in her room at Massey, Laurel moved quickly. She didn’t know how much time she had. This was the enemy who had got to Gwen, and now he was coming for her! Waves of terror and panic kept washing over her, but she fought them back. She had to think of Dana. The girl had to be protected. She tried to ring her, to warn her, but the line was busy. What to do? What to do? Frantically she rifled through the papers on her desk. Where is it? The tour itinerary of the Companions out west. Gwen had given her a copy as if to explain why the two had yet to join them. Well, regardless of their schedule, they were needed now. If she was taken … Laurel shuddered with horror … she steadied herself … the two out west were Dana’s only hope.

  Using all her willpower to concentrate on the task, she scribbled a note. Oh, poor Dana! Just a kid. How will she manage this alone? Stuffing letter and itinerary into the envelope of money, she ran to the porter’s lodge.

  “Could you keep this in my slot? If a young girl called Dana—Dana Faolan—comes asking for me, it’s for her. I don’t know when she’ll come, today, tomorrow, but it’s very important. Make sure she gets it. Okay?”

  “Sure. No problem,” the porter said, surprised by her vehemence. “I’ll tell the night shift too.”

  As she left the lodge, Laurel glanced through the gates. Her heart stopped. A black sedan with darkened windows drew up across the road. It looked sinister. Could it be him? She wasn’t about to take any chances. There was a back door out of Massey leading onto a side street. She would escape that way. Rushing back to her room, she grabbed her purse and some protective charms. She had no idea where she was going, she just knew she had to flee.

  When the telephone rang, she froze. Should she answer or not? It could be Dana. Or Granny or Dara. Or even Gwen. Each ring increased the tension. But she was safe in her room, wasn’t she? She locked her door. Picked up the receiver. A buzzing sound came through the telephone, so strong it shattered her eardrum. Her head spun. She staggered back dizzily.

  “Laurel.”

  The voice was oily. Hypnotic. Evil.

  • • •

  Mesmerized by Crowley’s voice, Laurel left her room.

  He was waiting in the porter’s lodge from where he had made the call. The porter stood against the back wall, looking frightened and confused.

  Silently, obediently, Laurel followed Crowley out of the college and into his car. He drove to the outskirts of the city to a deserted beach. She knew he was going to murder her, but she had no way of stopping him. A cloud had fallen over her mind, paralyzing her. The waspish sound rang continually in her ears. A sour metallic smell choked her nostrils. Though she wanted to fight for her life, she had no will to do it.

  Now he leaned toward her. She cringed with horror. His face was skeletal, the skin shone with a greenish tinge, and his eyes were two black pits. Bony hands reached out to grip her throat.

  A flash of white fire!

  It came from the moonstone that hung around her neck.

  With a screech of rage, Crowley jerked back. He couldn’t touch her. But she felt no relief. For something awful was happening to his body. Tentacles erupted from his chest and tore at the air around her. Before she could even let out a scream, she found herself falling into darkness. The violence of the fall knocked her unconscious.

  • • •

  When Laurel woke, she had no idea where she was or how long she had been there. Scrambling to her feet, she staggered slightly. A nauseous feeling washed over her. She gulped for air and began to choke. As far as she could see, she was in a bleak and blasted wasteland. The air was gray and smoky. In front of her lay a bog that crawled with strangled trees. Beyond the bog rose a ridge of jagged ghylls and crags. There was no sign of humanity in any direction. A cold chill gripped her heart. She knew that she had been sent here to die.

  In that moment of despair and loneliness, Laurel wanted to cry. But it was against
her nature. Instead, she surveyed the land. If she climbed the ridge, she would get a better view. There might be a road on the other side that led to less hostile territory. Maybe a way out. At the least, she would escape the dreary bog. She noted the sluggish stream that crept past the trees. That meant swamp. There might be quicksand. She would have to be careful.

  Once she had chosen a course of action, Laurel felt better. As the initial shock began to wear off, she considered her abduction. Could this be what had happened to Gwen? The thought gave her hope. She tried calling out for her friend, but soon stopped. The desolate echo of her voice was too discouraging.

  How long she wandered in the Brule, Laurel had no idea. The view had been deceptive. Everything was farther away than it looked. Hours had passed and she had yet to clear the bog. Though she wasn’t thinking of food, she was very thirsty. The ashen air parched her throat. She took a detour toward the stream, but any hopes of a drink died as soon as she saw it. The creek trickled over a bed of slime. The water was fetid.

  She stood transfixed on the muddy bank, staring downward. What was in the shadows beneath the surface? She leaned forward to get a closer look. The image was distorted, sickly white and bloated. Terror crept into her mind as she recognized what she saw: her own body drowned in the snye.

  Laurel tried to back away, but the stream seemed to pull her toward it. Unable to stop herself, she waded into the oily water. Something flickered beneath the murky surface. Small wormlike shapes. As the first leech burrowed into her leg, Laurel went faint with horror and almost toppled over. As she pitched forward, the leather necklace fell out of her shirt.

  The moonstone swung wildly, spraying white light around her. The leeches scattered. The snye released its grip. Almost weeping with relief, Laurel splashed her way out of the hideous stream.

  Safely back on the bank, her hands closed around the moonstone. It felt cool to the touch. Her skin tingled. It was as if she were standing inside a waterfall. Silently she thanked the young man who had saved her life.

  Still gripping the moonstone, Laurel headed back into the bog. Though her progress was slow, the stone seemed to give her the strength to go on. When she wasn’t tripping over roots or beating back briars, she was pulling her feet from the thick, gluey mud. Someone less fit might not have been able, but Laurel was an athlete and in good shape. Still, the ordeal was taking its toll. Her limbs ached and she was covered in scratches as well as foul-smelling muck. At last she broke from the bog and faced the ridge.

  Her moment of triumph was brief. Though the green orbs of light were not familiar to her, the buzzing sound was. A line of them had risen out of the earth to hover in the air, directly between her and the ridge she hoped to reach. The high-pitched noise they emitted was like that of killer bees. She had no doubt they were deadly.

  Laurel retreated to the shelter of the trees. But she was not defeated. Breaking off branches, she finally found one hefty enough to make a bat. She grinned to herself. Softball was one of her favorite sports.

  The green lights had moved closer to the edge of the copse, as if daring her to come out. Stealthily she approached them, gripping her stick. As soon as she stepped from the trees, one shot toward her. She batted it into the ridge, where it exploded against the rock. The next she doused in the river and the one after that as well. Two more hit the rock face.

  “Come on!” she yelled. “I’m just warming up! Batting practice! Let’s go!”

  The remaining few hovered in the air without moving.

  “Hah!” she called. “Not so brave now, eh?”

  This was her chance. Bat held high, she made a dash for the ridge. But even as she ran, she realized the truth. They had only been playing with her. As the droning sound rose to a crescendo of screeches, more and more rose from the ground. Now they swarmed toward her.

  Laurel screamed as the first struck her. Her shirt fabric burned away. Her skin was scorched. She batted away the second and the third, but the fourth hit her leg. She almost fell over. It was no use. There were too many. Gulping back sobs, she turned around and fled back to the trees.

  Again her hand closed around the moonstone. Don’t give up, came the message, like a whisper in her mind, you just need more weapons. Make a shield. Clarity of thought gave her strength. Of course. A shield. Plaited branches would do. Soaked in water, they might even be fireproof. Dare she tackle that stream again? She would have to. As she hurried in that direction, her foot was caught by a hidden root. She was sent sprawling into a damp hollow. Black mud oozed around her. She could sense its malevolence. Don’t bother to get up. It’s hopeless. You may as well surrender. She clutched the moonstone. Get up, gal, get up. You’re not beaten yet.

  Gritting her teeth, she repeated the message.

  “I’m not beaten yet.”

  Laurel clawed her way out of the ditch. That was when she spied it: a small mound of soil heaped at the foot of a withered tree. At first it looked like a fresh grave. Then she realized the mound had a discernible shape, as if sculpted in clay.

  The hair on the back of Laurel’s neck stood up. The shape was female. Gwen? Everything inside Laurel cried out not to look. But she had to. Breath held fearfully, she drew closer to the mound. As she recognized the body, a scream tore from her throat.

  We are so dead if Gabe ever finds out,” Dee said mildly.

  She looked out the airplane window. The sun shone palely above a sea of cirrus. The landscape below played hide-and-seek with the clouds. They had been flying for hours, over green and brown countryside, through various time zones, across plains and prairie.

  “Yeah,” said Yvonne with the same lack of concern.

  “Do you feel as if you’re wandering through a dream?”

  Dee was still absorbing the fact that she was heading for Vancouver on someone else’s money. The luxury of first class was as good as she had hoped. The flight attendant kept giving her things: delicious food, hot towels, free perfumes, expensive magazines.

  Yvonne shook her head vigorously. “Not in the least. I feel exquisitely awake. As if I’ve been doused in the ocean. Every nerve is tingling. I’m totally alive.”

  Dee reflected on her words. “I have that too,” she finally agreed. “That’s a better description. It’s the way I feel when I’m making a film, when it’s all coming together but still at the stage where anything could happen.”

  “Absolutely,” Yvonne concurred. “It’s as good as art and nearly as good as—”

  They grinned at each other and cackled like witches.

  • • •

  Dozing in the seat across the aisle, Dana couldn’t help smiling to herself. Her aunts were worse than two kids. And in more ways than one. She couldn’t believe it when Deirdre hogged the window seat. Gabriel always gave it to Dana on their travels. When her other aunt objected, Dana thought she was taking her side but no, Yvonne wanted the seat for herself. After a spirited exchange involving colorful words, the two came to a time-sharing arrangement that didn’t include their niece.

  “You need to rest,” Yvonne had said, quite unfairly. “You’re younger than us.”

  Only in years, Dana thought to herself, but she gave up arguing when she saw it was futile. Instead, she promised herself she’d be the first on the plane for the flight home. With her aunts, it was every woman for herself.

  Now the two were discussing the adventure in low tones. They had finally reached the realization that there could be trouble and they were worried for their niece.

  “Things could get hairy,” Dee was saying. “Remember those strange little men screeching up and down the hall at night?”

  “That was the dark rum,” Yvonne pointed out. “You didn’t see them again when you cut it out.”

  Again Dana smiled, but she also felt a pang of guilt. Was it right to endanger them this way? She had no doubt that it was only a matter of time before Crowley found her out west. He seemed to be able to track her no matter where she went. Did she have enough power to protect
herself and her aunts?

  Below lay the western province of Alberta. As they passed over the brown foothills of the Rocky Mountains, the flight got bumpy.

  “I don’t want to die,” Deirdre moaned. “Not now. Not ever.”

  Yvonne didn’t speak, but she looked anxious. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the armrests.

  Dana wasn’t afraid. It was far less turbulent than the flying canoe.

  “Come on, let me near the window. You both have your eyes shut!”

  Conceding defeat and welcoming the distraction, her aunts changed seats to let her in. Dana pressed her face to the window. The drifts of cloud had parted to reveal a vast mountain range powdered with snow. The stark peaks undulated like an ocean of living rock. Dana shivered with awe. There was power in these mountains. She had flown into the west to meet them. What would they teach her? What would she find here?

  An ache gripped her heart. If only Jean could see these too! She had thought about him all the way across Canada, missing him, wishing he was there, and imagining him in her mind. At the same time, she was glad of her decision. She preferred that he was safe.

  When the plane landed, the three took a taxi to their hotel. The driver was surprised when the aunts encouraged him to go the long way.

  “Ah, Vancouver,” Yvonne sighed, “Queen of Cities.”

  “Traitor,” said Dee, though she was also looking around her joyfully.

  “What?” said Dana, puzzled.

  Yvonne explained. “If you come from Toronto you can’t even hint that Vancouver might be better. Though it so obviously is and everybody knows it.”

  “Traitor,” said Dee again.

  “Don’t you have that in Ireland?” Yvonne asked her.

  Dana thought a moment. “There is a thing between Dublin and the west, but everyone pretty well agrees that the west is best. It begins when you cross the River Shannon.”

  “What is it about west coasts?” Yvonne mused. “Why do they have all the ambience? The je ne sais quoi?”