The Man Who Writes the Dreams
Page 9
“Ahh, that’s all you want to know? The secret to happiness? Well, heck, that’s the easiest one.” He chuckled again and turned to face me. His laugh made me think of my Nana’s chest freezer, full of ice cream, ice blocks, and other cold treats – it felt like everything was going to be OK.
“The trick is to get the circle going just before it hits the water.” He turned and threw the net again. “Too early and it will get all out of shape by the time it lands, see? Too late and, well, it ain’t gonna magically grow into a circle, is it?”
I scratched the back of my neck and looked down at my shoes.
“Hmm, guess that don’t help much if you’re not a fisherman now, does it? Been a little while since I talked to someone other than myself I’m afraid.” The fisherman took his hand off the net’s rope and stroked the swirling tattoos on his chin. “The secret to it is, there ain't no secret.” He paused and looked out over the lake. “Those two been tussling since well before ya time, and I’ll bet you a bucket of kina they’ll keep tussling a long time after it too. Cause there ain’t no winner’s side and no loser’s side there. There ain’t no right and wrong with a sheep-fence down the middle. You need to do what you decide you need to do. Not what the world tells you. Not what ya mother did. Not what ya daddy did. Listen to yourself. Heck, don’t pay no attention to old fools like me.”
“I still don’t know what I want to do, though.” I regretted the whining tone of my voice the second it left my lips.
The fisherman nodded. “Āe. And you won’t. Not at least till you tried a few things. You got to find what you love - it don’t come with no directions neither. You got to move those little waewae of yours; set those feet off on adventures. Don’t stay stuck in the current. Just cause everyone else is swimming in that direction doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be off in the other. Sometimes everyone else is wrong, and you’re the only one who knows it.”
Clang.
Crash.
Brigitta and The Old Man were out there somewhere, still battling away.
“Now that I mention it, if you’re ready, and looking for something to have a crack at, the old fella is recently in need of a new assistant.” The fisherman wiped his forehead with a thick chunky arm. “Those weird looking librarians of his don’t do him no favours if you ask me. But he likes them, and he needs one more.”
“Assistant?” I asked, “what kind of th—”
“Now, he tends to be pretty particular with his hires, but I’m aware of ya Mother’s artistic persuasions, and ya Daddy’s work ethic.” He lowered his voice. “About as exciting as watching a tray of Kahawai fillets cook in the smoker, that father of yours was. But based on that I’d say you just about meet all the red tape sign-offs. Tends to be me that does the signing off anyway, truth be told. And I certainly reckon he could do worse than you.”
“I don’t know much about dreams, sir…”
“Rubbish, you’ve been doing it all ya life. And now you’ve seen a dream fall too. You’re damn nearly an expert.”
“Well, I have enjoyed The Old Man’s company – once I got used to him, that is. He’s very… honest.” Eccentric was probably a good word too, but I didn’t want to sound rude. “I guess I could think about it.”
“Look, there’s a contract in that bucket over by the tree. Bring it here. Run ya sniffer over it, and if you like how it smells, I’ll getcha set up right away. I’m sure he’ll be finished soon.”
I brought the contract over and he handed me an ancient-looking pencil from his jean pocket.
“There’s some bits in there that are a little old and might sound odd,” he said. “So if it don’t make sense, you can probably ignore it. Updating them contracts is on my list.”
Standard Contract Schedule A36
I _____ agree to all conditions and clauses mentioned in the following contract of employment (hereby referred to as The Contract).
1) I will strive to always uphold the balance of night and day, good and evil, or whichever equation I am tasked with maintaining as per my arrangement with the hiring manager (A1 common clause).
2) I will treat all with respect, care, and love. When not possible to love, I will show tolerance. When not possible to show tolerance, I will show my back, when not possible to show my back, I will show my glove.
3) All intellectual property and atmospheric conditions created while in the employ of the hiring manager remain the sole property of the organisation and shall be attributed as such.
4) In the event of an accident leading to loss of limb: compensation to be rewarded at the rate of one rice sack per centimetre of limb lost (in the event of an ear, surface area is to be used).
5) Harvest leave to be discussed with employer at least three weeks in advance.
…
…
And on it went, down four more stapled pages. I’m no lawyer, but it all seemed like common sense, aside from a few lines that I figured were no longer relevant. Still, I read it through twice – because I’d heard that was what you were meant to do with contracts – and then I signed.
21 AND THAT’S THAT
Telling you this makes it a tale, but a tale isn’t always untrue.
————
And that’s why I’m here today.
I’m writing this with the same pencil the fisherman lent me, so it doesn’t get lost when I change. Because I will, we all do – I can already feel it starting. My throat is lumpy and the insides of my cheeks taste ever so slightly of stone. Too much time on one side of the fight, and our bodies adjust and adapt. Some of us change quickly, some of us slowly, but we all change – we’re all just black lines or feathers. It’s the price we pay for being able to shut out the rest of the equation – the rest of the noise. I’m not scared. There are others like me up there, plus I’ll be helping you and the rest of the dreamers, so it’s worth it.
Like I said, I signed the contract. I negotiated a deal – because I’d heard that was what you were meant to do with contracts. My start date with The Old Man was ten years from the day of signing so I could work on my dreams first. So that’s where I’ve been, making and shaping those jigsaw puzzle pieces of the sky, in the hope that they never fall out. The Old Man helped me write them of course, but I chose the colour and cut; I brought them to life on my own. Pencilling this tale onto pages for you was one of the last dreams left on my list. I wrote it so you can pass it on. They used to be all we had, stories that is. Then we grew up, grew smart, and forgot. I hope at least some of what I’ve told you makes sense; it’s as true as I can remember. The edges of my journey are blurry at times, and there are parts I had to forget. There are pieces I learned about too, like who the Old Man was before he got old. That’s his tale though, and like the roots of a flax bush that’s been there forever, I can’t dig it out on my own.
————
You’re probably wondering what happened to Aimee.
She never did recover completely. But she didn’t break. And the fight between The Old Man and Brigitta carried on alongside Aimee’s battle between the good days and bad. The colours came back to her, but there are still mornings when the coffee tastes gritty with grinds. Though, now she knows how to manage them, so fewer tears fall in her cup.
She’s working at another park, a regular one with swings and slides and jungle gym bars. It’s not hers, but it’s home; she laughs and is excited about life. Her dream wasn’t really about the water, or the rides, or the name on the sign, or the magazine interview notes. It was about the smiles on those little kids’ faces. The new park brings plenty of that.
She spends her weekends hunting the blues and the yellows and the other outdoor hues that she loves. She climbs mountains, and swims in the sea and the sun and works harder at smiling each day. While those colours used to sing from the park at her doorstep, she appreciates them more than back then. She appreciates them more for the work that they take. Each smile feels hard-earned and wide.
————
&nb
sp; As you know, David changed, just like I will. But he chose the other side, so his change was different; feathers instead of lines; wings instead of webs. You get what you ask for, I guess. His wife and daughter don’t know where or what he is now, other than gone and away. They couldn’t say when; the door was left locked, so the neighbour broke it down with an axe.
Swing.
Smash.
Crunch.
All three held their breaths as iron hit wood, then as the door panel bulged, then cracked. David’s daughter peeked from around the hall corner. His wife stood with shoulders square to the door.
The door swung open as chunks of paint and pine flew off its frame. The room was empty and cold. The window was open, the curtain half-torn and waving from the rails. There were small black feathers floating back and forth across the carpet, stuck in a breeze, like dark sailboats lost at sea.
Nobody else seemed to notice he was gone. A new Second in Command came along, and the rest of the office wished they were him. Just like they had wished they were David. Just like they’ll wish they’re whoever comes next. The Cogs kept turning, and the world kept spinning, too fast to pause and reflect.
————
And that's that.
The next time I’m near, you won’t know it’s me. You won’t know it’s anyone, in fact. But I’ll be waking you from that startling fall in your sleep when you somehow drop all the way down to your bed without moving an inch. You might feel my spider-silk and nettle thread webs sliding carefully under your back. You won’t feel me catch your dream, but if you stop falling, then know that I have. You won’t see me when your eyelids blink open, but I’ll be there in the shadow. Then I’ll head upstairs, back to The Device, back to work.
Maybe one day you’ll come and lend a hand. Or maybe you’ll choose the other side.
Or maybe you’ll think this was all just a story and carry on like nothing needs change.
Either way, until we meet again.
Dream well.
AUTHORS NOTE
I always thought people who printed their words in books had mastered the art of writing. The fact you're reading this proves that a lie. The writing in this book is definitely not masterful. But that’s because writing is a craft you get better at as you go, and I haven’t been going for that long. That’s OK though, I didn’t write this to become an author the world valued; I wrote it to add value to my children’s world.
If it was worth your time reading, please leave a review at www.goodreads.com, and www.amazon.com.
While this is the first book I've published, it won't be the last - visit www.perabarrett.com or add me on Facebook if you want to hear more about other books or the Shoebox Christmas project.
Nga mihi (thanks),
Pera.
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