by Pera Barrett
Against the wall opposite the bed was a plain wood dresser with a bowl of hair ties and bracelets on top, plus a few things I didn’t know the names of. The Old Man opened the top drawer of the dresser, reached a hand in and rummaged around. “Ahh,” he said. He smiled as he pulled out a small purple journal like a toy prize caught in a claw game’s pincers.
I held my breath. “Is that her diary?”
“Indeed it is.” The Old Man thumbed through the first few pages then handed it to me. “We need to find the point before her dream fell, of course.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and ignored the feeling of guilt in my stomach. Then I read the first page of cursive handwriting — then the next, and the next and the next.
This Diary Belongs To Lisa.
Mum said it’s called a ranch. It will be the best home for horses in the world. There will be ponds for them to drink out of and jumps for them to leap over and big huge wide open spaces because that’s what they love. I will treat them way, way better than the horrible people that send them away to die when they’ve won enough races. They won’t ever have to be scared again and they will have so many friends to play with.
….
I lifted my eyes from the diary to the Old Man’s face. “I think those horses usually end up as cat food, and their hooves get made into chewing gum.” That might just be a story the older kids told the smaller ones when I was at school.
The Old Man stared back and said nothing.
On I stomped through little Lisa’s private life.
….
I ate my lunch with Melissa and Aroha today and I told them about the horse ranch. They said I don’t even have enough money to buy one horse so I how am I going to make a home for a hundred.
I told them I’ve been saving my money but Melissa said her dad said a horse costs thousands and thousands of dollars. She said it was a stupid idea. She’s stupid.
….
Mum’s at work again. I hate it when she has to work after school too. The WHOLE school was talking about how stupid I am today. Even the kids in room 3 were making fun of my lisp. When Mum’s home I’m going to ask her why I sound different.
….
I’m going to tell Mum I don’t need to save up my money anymore. I know I’ll never be able to buy a horse ranch. Last night I heard her talking on the phone to Aunty Vanessa and she said she didn’t know how she was going to pay for my books. We can use my money for that.
I wish we were rich like Melissa.
I wish Dad was still here.
….
I asked Mum today why only some people were rich and not everyone. She said that’s the way the world works. I think that’s stupid. The Prime Minister should make us all rich.
…
Today a man came and visited our class to talk about jobs and working after school. He showed us some really really cool pictures of where he works and how fun it is. He told me I could buy a car if I started working now. That would be so cool. Me and mum could drive to work and school together.
…
I put my finger on the last entry. “This is it, I think.” I handed the purple book to The Old Man.
The Old Man read it and sighed. “Such a sad tale. But don’t worry, Matthew, we can save her.” He patted his hands against his pockets, then reached into one and took the silver pen out. He clicked it once then began to write in the diary as I looked over his shoulder. Blue lines of ink flowed from the ballpoint tip, an exact copy of Lisa’s handwriting.
….
Today I dreamed about the ranch again. I’ve decided to keep it. The dream I mean.
A man came to our house who knows about this stuff and he said that I can believe and grow my dream into a done-thing. Or I can disbelieve it into a no-thing. He asked me to think about the horses because my dream isn’t just about me, it’s about them too, he said all the good ones are. And if I disbelieve it into a no-thing then the horses will keep being sent to the place to die, so I would be hurting them. I don’t want to do that. It wouldn’t be fair.
I know I can’t afford a horse yet but the man said if I want it bad enough and believe I can do it then the little roads I take in my life will lead me to a place where I can. He said that’s the magic of the world.
He said the whole universe is made out of dreams and a life where I don’t follow my one wouldn’t be my life at all, but the life of whoever’s dream I ended up doing. He said the places where the man with the car came from are made to stop us following our dreams and they don’t tell you that until it’s too late. Until the horses are dead.
I want to make my dream come true. I want the horses to have a home.
….
“That should do it,” he said, closing the diary and sliding the pen back in his pocket. He shut the diary in its drawer like a lobbed grenade with six seconds on the delay fuse.
We left Lisa’s house and committed several similar break and entry offences across the island.
A trainee teacher who had forgotten why she wanted to help kids in the first place. An aspiring basketball player who had somehow been convinced that team sport was a selfish pursuit. Even a middle-aged Cog Team captain who had dreamed the traitorous dream of throwing in her job and opening an Ice-Cream shop. Each one felt wrong at first, then better as I watched their dreams be rebuilt. Rewriting diaries, weekly planners, and calendars. Pulling the circuitry from gaming devices. Picking up lives that had fallen off track. We gave them a second chance and hope.
“They all started out so focused and sure of what they wanted in life,” I said, “why does it happen? How do they all lose that?”
“Don’t they just.” The Old Man clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Unfortunately, the world has a habit of convincing you to want something else instead. It can be pretty persuasive sometimes, even without The Lady in Grey’s help.”
Our crime spree took us around the island at least three times and into the homes of two dozen people before The Old Man said it was enough. “Time to head back, I suppose.”
We took the path back through the mist, past the statue, and down to the beach.
We set off in our little boat and rowed back the way we’d come.
I thought I knew the answer but I asked anyway. “Why are there so many fallen dreams, why now?”
The Old Man nodded. “It will always happen. There’s no way to stop it completely. The possibility of them falling is what makes them dreams after all. But you’re not trying to march against the naysayers and the doubt like you used to.” He stopped rowing and wiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his blue plaid shirt. “The Lady in Grey is getting smarter with her attacks, and there are not enough Charlies left in the world to build their swings and convince you to fight. Sometimes you surrender after a long hard struggle. Sometimes you have a go at it until you suffer your first set of casualties — ego, some pride, a few friends. Then up goes the white flag.”
He let out a long, loud breath.
“You forget that losses are inevitable. And sometimes… sometimes you don’t even try to start. You have the dream and ignore it, not even trying to grow it into a done-thing. After I’ve taken all that time to write it and send it down.”
He was looking at me but I didn’t think he wanted a response, and I didn’t have one to give.
He picked the oars back up and started rowing.
————
The sun still didn’t move, but after what felt like another week at sea, we were back on the beach with the low hanging trees. Back home, nearly. I pulled the rowboat up the shore and tied it back where we had found it.
“So how do we stop it happening?” I kicked a comet-trail of sand into the air. “The dreams falling, I mean.”
“Well, Matthew, the best defence is always a strong offence. And on that note I've got one more person to see.” The Old Man stroked his knuckles. “One more final battle to fight, again.”
I didn't bother pointing out that his sentence
didn't really make sense.
“I’ll find you when I’m done,” he said. He turned off from the beach toward the city. I took the path back through the park. One field over, there were kids playing rugby in jerseys of red, green, and mud. The scoreboard numbers were big enough to read, Home: 23 / Visitors: 20. Sideline shouts of “Ref!” “Get in there green!” and “Go!” floated into the park through the trees.
Not a single bird in sight.
16 A FLY ON BLOOD
“The reality is, I don’t have time for it anymore. I’m at the factory nine hours a day. Between that and my commitments at the Club, there’s very little room for much else. I do what I need to do for this family, and that’s enough. That’s my lot.”
- Charlotte Young, 48 years old.
————
The streetlight opposite the house flickered twice, then went out.
It was 1 AM or thereabouts. Not that time mattered to the black shadow of a thing sitting on the tiles of the roof. If you were looking at it from a passing car, it was a one-dimensional ink splotch, just a dark, starless patch of the sky — a flat shadow of its master's desires. If you were unlucky enough to be closer, you might see the eyes on its hands. Both palms forked out into long oily fingers, each one a crow’s head with a thin beak that curved down like a claw. Its knuckles were lined with a row of tiny black eyes, blood-red rimmed, and set like opals in a dark rusty ring. They judged as they stared, and they blinked as they watched — seeing in all directions. If you were unwise enough to get closer, you might smell the stale meat and burnt tin on its breath. You might jump in fright at the midnight black wings on its back. It was a terrible thing to see, but it has lived most of its life in the world above the clouds, so chances are you’ve never had the misfortune.
————
The shadow sat hunched on the roof and scanned for a point of entry, then dropped head first off the edge. It glided down, wings opening mid-flight, sloping through the air like an empty black envelope falling from a table. It landed on a branch next to the window. Three black birds flew silently from the bough, making room for their superior.
The shape sat on the branch and looked in through the open window and half-closed curtains, dark wings contrasting against the shiny red weatherboard of the house, like a fly on blood.
It had been here every night for the past week, following the same routine. It didn’t plan; it couldn’t think that far ahead. It felt the pull, and it followed. It didn’t know who lived in the house, it only knew the target was near. The one inside. That was all that mattered.
A siren wailed in the distance.
The creature didn’t hear anything but the target’s heartbeat.
The black wings opened and closed as it flew through the window. The curtains fluttered without a sound. One more easy flap of its wings and two leathery black feet landed on the floorboards beside the bed.
Creak.
Most of the target was covered by blankets, an unmoving lump in the bed. The back of a ginger-haired head was the only part exposed, but the creature could still see the light radiating from her. Light was bad. Light was pain. Stop the light.
The sleeping lump moved and shifted, then turned over. The body rolled to a rest, its closed eyes facing the winged thing beside the bed.
The black creature tilted its head to the side. Something deep within tugged at it. Tugged at him. It knew the target from somewhere. The colour of ginger on the pillow stirred a memory that belonged to something else. Someone else. A water park, a bar, a tabby cat through a window. It pulled at his consciousness again. Not hard enough that anything moved. The memory slipped away like a leaf on the breeze. That consciousness and the person it had once been were buried deep below a thick, heavy blanket of mindless loyalty and darkness.
Wings folded back up behind its shoulders, the creature walked to the foot of the bed. The floorboards groaned at each step. The thing stared with hatred at the light in the bed, smoky, black eyes unblinking. It lowered its head and unfurled the wings once more, as if about to take flight. It leaned forward into the light and stood over the bed and the body under the covers, wings casting a swirling shadow over both, a shadow dark enough to be seen in the void of the night, darker than the back of tightly squeezed eyelids, dark enough to blot out the target’s light.
The creature didn’t know how long it stood there, still as a cemetery statue of an angel. It only knew the darkness was safe.
Then the sun started gliding up towards the horizon, its cue to leave.
Through the curtains.
Out the window.
Onto the branch and back into the barely night sky.
The thing that had been David flew into the clouds and away from the light.
17 BATTLE-AXE EYES
“Been two years now, and nothing to show for it. They said I would be the best in the world. I should be the best in the world. But even the best can’t catch a break these days. Guess I should start thinking about that job you pointed out. What did you say it was paying?”
- Wes Dawson, 22 years old.
————
I was back in my apartment, sitting on my couch, coffee in cup, cup in hand. Everything just as it should be.
The black TV screen flashed into flat life and colour. It showed a fluorescent-lit studio stage with three people in armchairs. In the middle, a man in a pink striped shirt, with greasy spiked hair. To one side of the stage, The Old Man was sitting with his hands resting in his lap. On the other side, a lady in a well-cut grey suit sat back with one leg folded over the other, black shoe hanging mid-air. The man with the spiky hair was mid-sentence; “—not often we get to see a debate of this quality. We’re in for a special treat. So, thank you both for coming. To start with, can you tell us how the campaign has gone so far, Brigitta?” He turned to the woman and laid his hands out flat, as if presenting a luxury sedan to the audience.
Brigitta nodded, an easy smile sliding on her face like a car salesman’s hand over a waxed bonnet. "Thank you, John, it’s so nice to see you again. I must say, I am truly delighted at the progress we’ve made.” Her eyebrows lifted. “Nine new factories in as many weeks, three thousand, six hundred, and forty-five more Cog turns this month than last. That’s in our major cities alone, John. And let me say, we’re doing this because the people have said it’s what they want, it’s what—”
“What who wants?” The Old Man slapped his hand against the armrest of the chair. “You, Brigitta. It’s what you want.”
Brigitta smiled at The Old Man. Her cheeks moved up, but her head tilted down. “Sorry, John. As I was saying, the response from voters has been overwhelmingly clear.” Brigitta extended her index finger like a drill-sergeant's cane and struck it against the air in time with her words. “They. Want. Action. Too long have we tolerated a nation of complacency. Too long have we watched our neighbour stay at home doing nothing, while we went to work like we should. We turned the Cogs that kept the street lights on, we sacrificed for their comfort. But no more. No more.” She stabbed her finger down into the arm of her chair, then looked straight at the camera and smiled.
The Old Man’s face filled the screen. The eyes behind his accountant-style glasses narrowed; they glinted like a battle-axe’s edge in the sun. He swung around to face Brigitta. The camera zoomed out just in time to catch her flinch. “And what difference have those have Cog turns made, Ms. Spinks? Tell me what all that work has done for the people. Are they fulfilled? Are they happy?”
Brigitta’s rolling eyes raised a shield and she counter-attacked, perfect smile still in place. "What difference have your dreams and wishes made, old man? Show me.” Her voice got deeper. The side of her smile curled up into a snarl.
The air in my flat was suddenly thinner, harder to breathe. Pressure started pushing against my ears the way it does on a train going through a tunnel. I sniffed. Something was burning. I looked up at the ceiling. Instead of the overhead fan spinning, a blue sky swirled and pushed o
ut from the centre. The heavens expanded like a whirlpool reversed. Thick stripes of snapdragon purple and blue untwisted and smudged into sky. White lines unfurled and unfolded as clouds. The walls fell away into hills that went on forever.
Clang. Scrape. The sound of steel against steel rang out in the distance.
18 EXCITED ABOUT LIFE
“Once I started doing it for the money, the money stopped coming. So I stopped worrying about the money, and it all came at once!”
- Julie Kingi, 59 years old.
————
Aimee Day walked into the office and glanced at the sign on the door. ‘Dr. Mary Lawson - Psychiatrist’. This was the second time in Aimee’s life she had been in such a place. The first office had smelled like pine-scented disinfectant. This one did too.
————
Two months ago, Aimee had been sipping French-roasted coffee in her office, looking out over her pride and joy: Days Waterpark - Days of Fun for the whole family.
A boy and girl in matching blond hairdos crashed together on the Impact Boat ride below Aimee’s window. The sides of their boats’ inflated rubber rings bounced off each other like wobbly puppies bumping heads, and happy yelps of excitement carried across the water.
What a life.
A copy of the local paper sat on the windowsill; Aimee smiled and mouthed the words from her profile piece.
