by Kit Alloway
Saidy Avish was assisting Kerstel with the finger foods. Saidy and her husband, Alex, lived on the house’s second floor with their daughter, Winsor, who was—or had once been—Josh’s best friend.
Saidy looked disparagingly at the mess Josh tracked on the floor and ordered her to remove her shoes. Kerstel said, “Josh, I just washed the floor,” but she was laughing.
Barefoot, Josh followed Deloise down the hall and into the stairwell. Deloise floated up the steps, her ballet flats hardly indenting the carpet. “What were you saying?”
“Yeah, the guy in the trench coat. He said…” Josh hesitated, half wondering if she hadn’t misheard the words through his mask. “He said I was Jona’s daughter.”
“What?” Deloise looked sharply at Josh over her shoulder, lost her balance, and had to grab the banister to keep from falling down the stairs. Josh put a hand on her sister’s back until Deloise was moving forward again.
“That’s impossible,” Deloise said. “I mean, how could he know who you are?”
“He couldn’t.” Now that she had a moment to think, Josh found the man’s recognition even more disturbing. He had been a figment of the nightmare, not a conscious being with a mind or a past. He had never met Josh’s mother.
“I must have misheard him.”
“Well, you should talk to Dad about it,” Deloise advised. “Or Grandma. They’ll know. You didn’t break Stellanor’s First Rule, did you?” She turned sharply again, her voice rising with alarm. “He might have been able to read your mind if you let the dreamer’s fear take you over.”
“I didn’t break Stellanor,” Josh said, although that’s exactly what she had done. Yes, letting the dreamer’s fear touch her was dangerous—especially when dreamfire was present—but sometimes it was the only way to get vital information. And she was careful. “I’ll ask Grandma later,” she said, and let the subject drop.
They reached the third floor. The house, originally a Greek-revival mansion, had been renovated and expanded several times, and now contained two three-bedroom apartments on the second floor and a four-bedroom apartment on the third. Because the Dream required monitoring, continuously but especially at night, and because the archway in the basement was the only one for miles around, it made sense for a number of dream walkers to share the house.
The Weavaroses lived on the third floor. The living room, once nothing more than four white walls and a couch, had flourished like a garden under Kerstel’s care. Now the windows were dressed with brown velvet curtains and the taupe walls bore earth-toned textile art created by a local craftswoman. Alpaca throw blankets were piled in a wicker basket at the end of the couch, and the air smelled of Kerstel’s favorite toasted-almond-scented candles.
Josh and Deloise’s bedrooms were connected by a bathroom and sat between the master bedroom and an extra room used for storage and the collection of junk. Two weeks earlier, Kerstel had decided to clean out the junk room, but she had lacked answers when Josh asked about the unexpected change. “Just seemed like a good idea,” she’d said finally.
Deloise said this meant Kerstel was pregnant, but Josh thought she probably just wanted the extra closet space.
Josh’s own room was a wreck of textbooks and martial-arts books and clothing she couldn’t be bothered to put away. Half a dozen blankets, none of which matched one another or the sheets on the bed, were heaped on the mattress and the window seat and the overstuffed recliner in the corner. Most of her possessions looked like they had been won in a street fight; even her hairbrush had a corner chipped off.
Winsor was sitting on the corner of the bed, leafing through a knife catalog. Her dark, layered hair shone in the ruddy light of the bedside table, and she smiled knowingly—and just a bit scornfully—as she looked up at Josh, blue eyes cutting through her overlong bangs.
Though not shy, Winsor’s combination of intensity, obvious intelligence, and reserve often created a barrier between her and other people. She could appear cold without meaning to—at least, Josh thought she didn’t mean to. If her family hadn’t lived on the second floor, Josh considered it unlikely that they would ever have become friends. After a “wardrobe malfunction” at a middle school pool party, Winsor had developed great sympathy for dreamers trapped in shame and embarrassment nightmares. Josh couldn’t count the number of times she’d had to pass up a perfectly terrifying monster chase because Winsor wanted to help some kid dreaming he was naked in his school cafeteria.
“I told Del you would be down there.” Winsor shook her head. “Workaholic.”
“I’m not a workaholic,” Josh told her, although winter break had just ended, and she had worked like a sled dog the entire time. She fought the urge to flop down on the bed—she didn’t want to contaminate her blankets with sewer sludge.
“You’re a workaholic in dire need of a shower,” Winsor replied. Although her voice was light and she continued to smile, Josh detected a fine edge to her tone, like a very long, thin blade hidden beneath her words.
Nothing had been right between them since the summer before, and Josh was beginning to think that the damage to their friendship was irreparable.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Josh said. “I’m moving.”
As Josh closed the door to the bathroom that connected her room to Deloise’s, she heard her sister say, “Look at this place!” Winsor chuckled.
Josh leaned against the door and sighed. She was exhausted. No, she had been exhausted for weeks. She was beyond exhausted and into bone-tired. And now she had her birthday party to deal with.
Her image in the mirror was a mess. Smelly, grayish water dripped out of her short brown hair. Her mouth hung slack with fatigue, and her green eyes, too pale to begin with, were now the color of cheap pottery glaze.
She peeled off her thin black shirt, shivering, and tossed it into the hamper with the rest of her clothes. Her right shoulder was swollen and already turning purple. Only a dreamer’s soul—or spirit or consciousness or whatever one wanted to call it—was present in the Dream, so a dreamer couldn’t be killed or injured no matter what happened to them. But a dream walker entered the Dream body, mind, and spirit, and whatever injuries they sustained in the Dream remained real when they returned to the World.
Josh pulled the compact out of her pocket and tossed it onto the wicker dish on the counter, along with her Zippo. Engraved in the lighter’s rose-gold plating, among the myriad scratches and dents, she could still make out the inscription: To J.D. Love Always, Ian.
Ian had been the only one who ever called her J.D.
For a moment Josh stared at the words, realizing it had been exactly one year since Ian had given her the lighter. Such an odd gift coming from him, so thoughtful. And it was all the more precious because it was one of the only things she had left of Ian.
Finally, she removed a long golden chain from around her neck and set it in the wicker dish. A tiny pendant hung from the chain—a plumeria blossom stamped on a golden disk. The plumeria represented the True Dream Walker, who had been the first person to enter the Dream and end nightmares. Josh wasn’t really sure she believed in his legend—and she certainly didn’t believe the tale that he would someday return—but she had grown up hearing the stories just like every other dream walker before her. Moreover, she believed in the ideals his legend stood for, and she wanted to wear the pendant tonight of all nights, when she accepted the mantle of responsibility he had—according to the stories—passed down to her. But she took it off so she could wear the only other necklace she owned: three jade teardrops, set an inch apart, hanging from a thin golden chain. Her grandmother had given it to her, and Deloise had shopped for Josh’s outfit with it in mind.
Half an hour later, she was dry and dressed in a floor-length light-green skirt with a knit cream top that hung over her hips. Although the outfit didn’t resemble the formal gowns most girls wore to their seventeenth-birthday parties—except one of the Grodonia girls, who had worn a black leather miniskirt, a blue-green corset, a
nd a belly-button piercing so new it still dripped blood—Josh doubted anyone who knew her expected that she would arrive dressed for the prom. This was the only skirt she owned.
“Turn around,” Deloise said after fastening the necklace behind Josh’s neck.
Josh went back into the bathroom to look at herself. Deloise had done a good job; the color of the jade matched the shade of the skirt exactly and made Josh’s eyes appear darker than they were, drawing out the features of her face.
“Oh, it’s perfect,” Deloise cooed, obviously pleased by this feminine touch. Winsor gave an indifferent nod of approval.
It was perfect—even Josh could see that. Which was precisely why she had asked Deloise to select an outfit for her. Deloise knew about things like details and accessories and the hidden implications of clothing.
“We’re going to be late in four minutes,” Winsor announced, standing up and smoothing her dress.
Deloise grinned. “Come on, birthday girl.”
Josh took a deep breath and followed her sister through the bedroom door. She had faced hundreds of other people’s nightmares; tonight she had to face her own.
* * *
They held the ceremony out on the lawn. Josh knew what to expect, but the sight of the stone pathway leading to a giant weeping willow tree in the moonlight, marked every yard by a glowing white candle, still made her suck in a breath.
“Oh,” Deloise whispered, “I love this stuff!”
Paper lanterns hung from the branches of the ancient willow tree, casting a yellow glow over the grass. The air was chilly but not cold—unseasonably warm for January—and Josh was glad Deloise had picked a sweater for her to wear.
More than a hundred people had gathered around the tree. Josh had known most of them all her life—they were all part of the local dream-walker clan—but she was self-conscious with the knowledge that tonight everyone was looking at her, talking about her. Expecting something special from her.
She started to ask Deloise to stay with her and found that her sister had already vanished, along with Winsor. The crowd’s chatter died down as everyone turned their attention to Josh, which only increased her desire to go running, but she forced her wooden feet in their dainty cream slippers to keep walking along the candle-marked path. Through the thin soles, she felt the sharp gravel path with each step.
She sat down on a stone chair placed at the bottom of the willow tree’s trunk and forced herself to look up bravely into the crowd. At first the glare of candlelight in her eyes was too strong, but after a few seconds the faces began to make themselves known to her. She felt less anxious as she recognized people and returned their smiles—her martial-arts instructor, her cousins and aunts and uncles, her mother’s best friend. Just as Josh recognized Young Ben Sounclouse, he stepped out of the circle and came toward her.
Young Ben had to be approaching a hundred years old. In his twenties, he had taken over as seer for a really old guy named Ben, and everyone had been calling him Young Ben ever since. His face was dappled with liver spots and he walked slowly, but he had quick eyes and good hearing aids. He was the local seer, one of a small group of dream walkers who kept histories, doled out wisdom, and—most important—wrote prophecies. Under the monarchy that had once ruled Europe, Asia, and North America, seers had garnered great respect, but since the revolution—led by none other than Josh’s own grandfather—the seers had lost all of their political authority, and no one was quite sure how they fit into dream-walker culture anymore.
In the nineteen years since the overthrow, a permanent government had yet to be formed, and the junta that remained in power had thrown out the grand old ceremonies and elaborate rituals that the monarchs had loved. Coming-of-age parties—once a standard rite of passage with a well-known form—lacked their former ostentatious pomp.
Young Ben was wearing a Hawaiian-themed tux that didn’t really fit—his beer belly was slumping over the cummerbund—and he held a heavy rosewood box. Jewels set into the lid caught the candlelight and glittered like colored stars. A lot of communities printed scrolls off computers and handed them out in sealed envelopes these days, but Young Ben still hand-wrote his on parchment and presented them in the same jeweled box he’d always used.
“Good evening,” he said, standing next to Josh’s chair. His ancient voice sounded like a record played with a barbed-wire needle, but it carried clearly between the branches. When he put his plump hand on Josh’s shoulder, his touch was warm and firm with affection. “Welcome to Josh’s birthday,” he added, and easy laughter relaxed the atmosphere. “We’re here tonight to welcome one of my favorite people into adulthood. Laurentius, Kerstel, you’ve done a wonderful job. You’ve given Josh every value a good dream walker needs, and I know Jona would be proud. I doubt there’s one among us who hasn’t been downright astonished by Josh’s skills in the Dream, by her determination not just to end nightmares but to resolve them, or by her commitment to return night after night. I can’t think of a higher compliment than to say that when Josh decides she’s going to help a dreamer wake up, that person can know for certain that they aren’t going to be abandoned to the monsters. And I don’t know of a higher calling, or someone I’d rather see take it up.” He gave the crowd a big smile. “Does anyone have anything they’d like to say?”
Josh—who was already hot-cheeked and sick to her stomach—wondered if that wasn’t a little like saying, “If anyone has any reason why this child should not be allowed into adulthood, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
And this, she realized, was what she was afraid of. Her deepest fear, her personal dreamfire, surrounded her in the form of friends and family. This was her moment of truth, and she was terrified that the truth was exactly what would be said.
For an instant, she thought she saw Ian’s face in the crowd. Seven months ago he had been the one sitting beneath the wings of the willow tree, and she had been the one telling the crowd everything she loved about him.
He wasn’t here tonight to tell her family the whole truth about what had happened to him. The evidence was right in front of them, but they didn’t want to see it because Josh was their darling, their prodigy, proof of their success as a family and a community. They didn’t want to think about Josh’s mistakes.
She killed her boyfriend.
No one said that, or the other things she was afraid to hear. No one even made a joke at her expense. One by one, people rose to talk about her gifts, her abilities in-Dream unaccounted for by her training. They recalled her moments of glory—how at the age of eight she had resolved the first dream she ever walked without a word of instruction from her parents; how at twelve she had jumped out the window of a nine-story building and landed in a Dumpster, not a scratch on her or the old woman she had saved from a nightmare’s burning apartment; how at fifteen she had dragged her own father, unconscious, out of the Dream after he was hit in the head with a hockey stick.
Everyone said nice things. But the longer Josh listened, the more apparent it became that no one was going to mention anything she had done outside the Dream. They spoke as if she existed to them only when she walked, only inside the Dream’s nebulous fantasy world.
What else could they talk about? she wondered. My so-so grades? My complete lack of social graces? Last summer?
Her heart hurt at the thought of last summer. She felt the pain as an injured muscle—sore, battered, aching with every breath and beat. No one was going to bring up last summer, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted them to or not, if it would be better to keep up this charade of her infallibility or to face what she had done. For a moment she even thought of stopping the ceremony and giving her own account of what had happened the night the cabin burned—wasn’t that what a true adult would have done?—but the idea so frightened her that she only gripped the rough arms of the stone chair and swallowed hard.
When people finished talking, Young Ben stepped around to face Josh, and Laurentius and Kerstel fell in on either side of h
im. “Stand up,” Ben whispered, after several seconds’ pause, and Josh realized he had been waiting for her and scrambled to her feet.
“Joshlyn Dustine Hazel Weavaros,” he announced, “from tonight on you will be an adult among us. I understand you wish to take your journeyer’s vows?”
“I do,” Josh said. This was the only part of the ceremony she had looked forward to.
“Just let her take her master’s vows!” someone in the crowd called out, and laughter filled the yard.
Young Ben made a face like he was giving the idea some thought, then grew serious again. “Hold out your hands and repeat after me.”
Josh held her hands out, palms up, and Ben dipped his finger in a vial of scented oil before tracing a spiral onto each palm. As he did so, he said, “I do this night commit my body, mind, and heart to the protection and care of the Dream for a term of seven years.”
Josh repeated the words. The oil on her palms smelled like cedar and sandalwood. Dream-walker children took a novice vow before they began training, but not many bothered to take a formal journeyer vow when they turned seventeen, and even fewer took a master vow at the age of twenty-five. Even those who dedicated the better parts of their lives to dream walking rarely took vows, but the words meant a great deal to Josh. She felt them sink into her body like warmth.
Ben rested his hands on her shoulders. “May the True Dream Walker himself watch over you, and may you always walk safely.”
“Walk safely,” a hundred voices echoed.
Young Ben took the rosewood box from Kerstel and held it out to Josh. He opened the lid.
Josh couldn’t stop herself from pulling back a few inches, half expecting all the world’s evils to come pouring from the box’s mouth. When they didn’t, she peered at the contents the way she would have looked at the sun—with her eyes fixed up against the inevitable pain.
But all she saw was a wooden box lined in black velvet and edged with gold tassel. A piece of parchment rested innocently inside, rolled tight and fastened with a green wax seal stamped W.
