Waking in Dreamland

by Jody Lynne Nye

  “Second,” she said, giving Taboret a speaking look.

  “Sorry,” Taboret said. And she was sorry, but to be clean and dry suddenly felt like a matter of life and death.

  She bathed as quickly as she could. She put on her night clothes while her day things slapped against one another in the tumble dryer, and slipped out to let Carina take over the facility.

  Her camp bed lay on the new stone floor within arm’s length of the tiny waterfall. The cataract trickled down the stone face into a minute pool that emptied into an equally small rivulet. Downstream, the flow had been channeled into the sanitary facilities, but here it was virtually unchanged. Taboret was grateful that the chief ’s plans included the bathroom, so she didn’t have to make them up by herself. She was tired. There was no oomph left in her to do anything.

  Stretching out on her belly along the cot, she reached out and dabbled her fingers in the water. About fifty-nine degrees, she thought. Clarity, ninety-seven percent, color brownish, probably due to a combination of lichens and mineral content. Almost certainly drinkable.

  “Does that feel good?” Glinn asked suddenly. She looked up and found him standing nearby, watching her.

  “Good?” Taboret asked, surprised, curling her legs around and sitting up. “I suppose so. Can’t you tell?” she added, with more force than she intended.

  Glinn looked away, a little embarrassed. “I . . . felt coolness over my fingers, and I wanted to know where it was coming from.”

  “I’m sorry,” Taboret said, at once apologetic. “You must know that, too. Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. Doesn’t it bother you that everyone knows everything you feel or think when you’re in the gestalt?”

  “Well,” Glinn said, sitting down on the nearest bunk to hers. “Not everything.” His cheeks reddened. “I mean . . . there are some things. . . .” He smiled at her, and his soft brown eyes wore a hopeful expression.

  “I know what you mean,” Taboret said, hastily. She was aware again how much she was beginning to like him. With the growing strength of the link she could no longer could hide it from him, or anyone else in the group. And it felt, it almost felt as if he liked her, too. Did he? “Glinn, I’ve . . .”

  “Are we settled?” Brom asked. He appeared at their side, looming over them. Taboret stared up at his glittering eye like a mouse caught in the gaze of a bird of prey.

  “Yes, sir,” Glinn said, springing to his feet.

  “Good! Let us finish making up our little comforts, then seal this place up so we will not be disturbed.” Brom stared down at Taboret. “It will not take everyone’s influence. These are small tasks. You may rest.”

  Taboret settled gratefully on her bunk to watch. She was sorry for Glinn, who looked as tired as she felt. He and the chief closed the great stone doors, and locked them with a huge key that Glinn took out of the keyhole to wear around his neck.

  “Aren’t you going to set the Clock? Haw haw haw!” Lurry called from his corner of the sleeping area, and the Counting-sheep brothers laughed. Brom gave them an icy look that quelled them, and Taboret climbed into her bunk, pulling up the cover to deliberately shut out the sight of them. In spite of the early hour, she was ready to go to sleep.

  The chief had spoiled that lovely warm mood. He had a knack for appearing just as she and Glinn were starting to have a real conversation. Taboret regretted that she’d never know what either she or Glinn had been going to say before Brom interrupted. She had known what Glinn was thinking, to a certain extent. Could he read her thoughts? Did he have an inkling that she had betrayed the mission? Taboret knew she ought to feel remorse, fear, or justification, but it just didn’t seem very important at that moment. She hoped no one would read her dreams.

  Chapter 16

  Lightning crashed overhead, illuminating decrepit old houses on the top of the surrounding hills. In the barren fields amid blackened, wasted crops, Roan caught the occasional glimpse of skeletons hanging on crossbars. Bare trees creaked in the wind. Roan peered out from under the stiff brim of his hat at the road. It had been raining for hours, yet the tracks they were following barely imprinted the soggy ground, as if they had skimmed lightly over the surface. Lum was puzzled by the anomaly, but Roan suspected another of Brom’s machinations. The steeds had become bicycles when the rain turned cold. Roan wished he could deaden his nerve endings at will and still remain functional.

  His clothing was soaked through, in spite of a quick waterproofing and the wide brim of his hat, which deflected much of the rain. Beside him, the princess pedaled gamely onward on Golden Schwinn. Her hair under her hood was dampened down, curling into dark ringlets at the sides of her face. It looked perfectly charming, although it was as much as Roan’s life was worth to mention it. He would have been enjoying riding out with her through the countryside if it wasn’t for several factors: the rain, their mission, and the discomfort of riding for so far and so long.

  Leonora noticed him looking at her, and blinked water off her lashes.

  “We have to get in out of this gale,” she said. “At this moment, I wouldn’t care if Brom dropped a bomb on our heads.”

  Roan nodded, and started peering ahead through the downpour for likely shelter. At the top of the next rise, he thought he caught a glimpse of red lines in the sky.

  “I think I see dry weather up ahead,” he called to Spar. “Let’s step up the pace if we can.”

  “Hah! Gladly!” the guard captain shouted back. He raised his hand to signal to the others.

  The rain whipped into Roan’s face as his tires spun downhill. Now and again, images of trucks from the dreams of minor sleepers appeared on the narrow path, crowding the riders to one side. The party formed a single-file line with Colenna and Leonora riding between Spar and Roan, then Bergold and Lum. Roan kept an eye on the clouds, searching for that trace of red he’d seen. It had been there a moment ago, near the horizon to the northeast. Weather was so unpredictable. If they didn’t run into that high pressure system soon, he’d have the group take shelter somewhere and continue on when the rain ended.

  “Whiiinnnggg,” a small truck whined reproachfully, zipping past them. Another one followed in its wake. “Whoiiinnnggg.”

  “Traffic’s getting heavier,” Felan complained, shouting over the wind. “And I think the road is narrowing!”

  The junior historian was right. The sides of the road were closing in under their tires. Soon it seemed no wider than a tightrope. The steeds clung to the narrow pavement. Another vehicle came straight at them. Spar let out a hoarse cry. The truck swung wide at the last second. The gray road bed expanded like a rubber band under its wheels so it just missed them.

  “Hang on,” Roan said, encouragingly, though his own heart was pounding in his chest. “The dry weather’s just ahead. We can pull off in a moment.”

  “Hard right!” Spar shouted. A pair of glowing yellow globes appeared in their path, taking up the entire roadbed. It was a big truck, its engine roaring. “Jump for it, men!” He started to veer toward the right, into the red band that Roan thought was a high-pressure zone, but where an H should have been was a roiling, greasy-looking glaze of white.

  “What’s that?” Leonora screamed.

  “It’s a hole!” Bergold shouted. “Don’t go into it.”

  Roan gasped, and grabbed for the rear fender of Leonora’s bike. He misjudged his aim, and Schwinn’s rear tire scraped his hand. He urged Cruiser to go faster so he was beside her, and shoved the frightened steed over and away from the hazard, but the red border stretched outward like an open mouth. The truck roared nearer, forcing them over into it. The bicycles squeaked with fear as their tires skimmed the edge. Roan hauled hard on the handlebars, forcing both steeds backwards, away from the red band, but it reached out to envelop them. They were blinded by a mad swirl.

  The glow died away, and they found themselves on a road that looked the same as the one they had just left, except that it was no longer raining. Roan coasted to a halt and looked around
them.

  “What was that?” he asked Bergold.

  “A hole in reality,” the senior historian said. “We were lucky. This one was very mild. Nothing happened to us.”

  “But where are we?” Leonora asked.

  “Right where we were before,” Bergold said. “But things changed around us.”

  “That’s not possible,” Lum said, wrinkling his forehead.

  “Soldier, all things are possible,” Spar said. “What in the Nightmare are those?”

  He pointed to clump of trees surrounded by a wide band that stretched from a foot off the ground to as high as Roan could reach.

  “I’ve no idea,” Roan said. Bergold opened his small book and leafed through it.

  “Is it there to protect the trees?” Hutchings asked. He put out a hand. The moment he touched the belt, there was a huge CLANG! He was flung through the air, steed and all, right across the road into another banded clump of trees. That one, too, let out a mighty jangle, and propelled him away. He flew toward a third clump, but fell just short of making contact. Roan and the others rushed over to help him up. There was a loud clicking noise in the air, but Roan could not see the source of the sound.

  “Fascinating!” Bergold said, standing and looking around him with interest. “I’ve heard of the Bally effect, but I’ve never seen it before.”

  “That could kill you,” Hutchings said, staggering to his feet. He was pale with shock, and his light brown hair stood out from his head. His steed, a little dented, squealed wildly as Misha helped it up.

  “Avoid touching any more of them,” Bergold ordered. “We have to find our way out of this effect. Look for anything that says ‘Game Over.’ ”

  Avoiding the trees was not easy. The forest was thickly overgrown. The party had a tight squeeze to pass between two clumps that flanked the road. Lum led the way, crouching over his handlebars, and looking warily from side to side, as if fearing the bands would reach out and kick him. Roan pedaled cautiously, keeping his knees in as much as possible. Bergold forced his usual comfortable bulk into a tall, narrow form, until they eased out into a wide meadow, where the path ran safely out of the reach of any trees.

  “Well done, everyone,” Roan said, turning in his saddle. But he had spoken too soon. Felan, the last to pass through the gap, brushed a tree band with the edge of his sleeve. Roan only half-heard the clang, as he and all the others were repelled hard enough to send them tumbling off the road toward another group of trees. Head over heels they rolled, caroming into protruding rocks and each other, causing meadow flowers to light up like candles. Roan scrambled to his feet, then turned at the princess’s scream just in time to see an object like a triangular gate swinging down toward them. It caught them hard on the backsides, tumbled them helter-skelter into a very complicated tree clump, which scattered them in several directions. Rocks, hillocks, and even bushes were surrounded by the bands of force. Anything they touched shot them across the meadow again. Helplessly, they ricocheted around like marbles.

  “Stop moving,” Bergold panted. “Grab anything. Stop. Hold on.”

  Roan managed to clamber to his knees as Leonora was catapulted toward another of the triangular gates. It opened back, preparing to deal her a mighty swat that would send her flying. He sprang, making a tackle just in time, and landed half on her, half on Golden Schwinn. He helped her up, and they stood clinging to one another for a moment. Schwinn leaned against their legs, emitting a creaking whimper. The gate screeched forward into its original position, as if disappointed.

  “Are you all right?” Roan asked. Leonora nodded, clutching the bicycle handles. She was quaking. As soon as he was sure she could stand alone, he ran to help the others.

  Bergold and Misha had managed to catch hold of one another’s legs like a live hoop. As they rolled past Roan, he stood ready, then pushed them over so the hoop fell on its side, bringing it to a halt. The two men sprang to their feet, and Bergold reasserted his normal, rounded body type.

  “Whew!” he said, patting his belly. “There’s no advantage to being a beanpole like you.”

  Misha grinned, and the three of them split up to save the rest. Spar was caught between two clumps of trees. They threw him back and forth, like a giant tossing a bag from hand to hand, accompanied by deafening jingling and clattering. Roan rushed at him while the guard captain was in mid-air, and brought him to the ground beyond the reach of either copse. Together, they rescued Colenna, trapped in the exact center of a triangle of ringing bands. She stood with her arms wrapped around her body, afraid to move. With Roan’s help, Spar extended long arms into the enclosure, and plucked her out. She clung to him for stability.

  “What are we looking for?” Roan asked, when the party had reassembled at a safe distance from the nearest band.

  “The gates,” Bergold said, casting around. “If this is a true Arcade Pinball dream, we have to pass through a pair of gates to get out of here. From the data I’ve read in the Akashic Records, the ground tends to slope downward toward them. That’s a clue.”

  “There’s a downslope that way,” Lum said, nodding toward the southwest. “And along that way, too. I got tossed about there a bit, so I know.”

  “Which way, then?” Spar asked Roan.

  Roan studied the land. The ground was packed hard under the light sward of grass. There’d be no trace of Brom in this fold in reality. They would simply have to find the trail again once they got out of here.

  “That way looks most likely,” he said, pointing down the long axis of the meadow.

  “Now, don’t you touch anything else,” Spar told Felan. The young man glared.

  “Do you think I did that on purpose?” he demanded. Spar just looked at him.

  “Success!” Bergold cried, pointing ahead. Before them, at the bottom of a long, gentle slope, were two triangular constructions, banded like the trees, and studded with glowing flowers. Roan eyed them. As he approached, the gates started to move closer together.

  “We won’t make it,” he said. “The gap will be too narrow to slip through.”

  Just as he said that, the gates reversed their motion and drew outward again, but colored rocks with lit flowers rose from the earth in their path, preventing a clear run.

  “It’s rhythmic,” Misha said. “See that? If we time our dash properly, they won’t touch us.”

  “Everyone be careful,” Bergold said. “I don’t want to go careening into any more trees.”

  The noise near the paddles was almost overwhelmingly loud. Whenever one of the party stepped on a new patch of ground, more flowers and trees lit up, accompanied by jangling, clicking, whistling and the now familiar clanging. All these factors were meant to confuse intruders. Roan was concerned that they would distract him from dashing safely between the gates. It also worried him that he couldn’t see what lay beyond them.

  “Shall I go first, sir?” Hutchings said, squaring his shoulders until he looked more of a mathematical construct than a man.

  “No,” Roan said. “I will.” He stepped astride Cruiser, who was dancing at the noise. Roan observed that there was a moment when it was possible to get all the way to the gates without hitting a single band. It would take very careful timing. Steadying the steed with the pressure of his knees, Roan took a deep breath, and started pedaling.

  As soon as he began to move, the gates started to edge towards one another again. The gap narrowed more and more until it was less than six feet wide. Roan pumped harder. If his observations were correct, then it would reach its perigee moments before he reached it, and would be increasing again when he passed through. If they were wrong, and it kept closing, he’d be trapped between the paddles. An impact at that short a range might easily break his back.

  All seemed to be well, until he rode over a shallow depression in the turf. Cruiser bumped right out of it, but the pressure appeared to have triggered some kind of reaction in this strange forest. A round pillar as wide as a house sprang up from the ground between him and
the gates. Cruiser squeaked in alarm and reared high on his back tire. Roan struggled to control the steed, wheeling him in a circle to avoid falling off. They veered around the banded pillar, which jangled loudly at him. The gates had opened as wide as they would go, and were closing again. Roan put on a burst of speed, wove between the glittering rocks and hummocks, and hurtled between the gates into the darkness.

  At once, the ground dropped away from under them. Cruiser let out a shrill squeal. Roan hung on tightly to the handlebars. They dropped several feet, where Cruiser bumped to a stop on a smooth floor. Roan looked up, and realized the mouth of the pit was perfectly round. He hadn’t been hurt at all, although the fall almost made his heart stop. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, when Felan fell in almost on top of him.

  “Phantasms!” Felan swore, clutching his steed’s frame. He landed upright, and the surprised bicycle bounded to a halt.

  “Look out,” Roan shouted, pushing Felan off the spot where they’d been standing. The rest of the party slapped down one by one into the pit, heralded by more jangling, sounding like music played so loud it distorted the very atmosphere in the pit.

  “My stars!” Bergold said, as soon as his steed stopped bouncing.

  When the last person arrived, there was a fusillade of clicking, and the ceiling lit up with enormous red and yellow letters: “revO emaG.” Roan couldn’t read them. Then he realized that they were backwards.