Waking in Dreamland

by Jody Lynne Nye

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Lum said. He started to pick up his hand, turned scarlet, and nodded his head toward one side of the road. “There’s variation in the stones over there, and the plants, too.” Roan looked. The landscape did seem to be wrong in patches, but only in patches. He nodded eagerly.

  “The crucible!” Spar exclaimed. “Are we close to Brom?”

  “No idea,” Bergold said, still going through his steed’s packs. The first thing that came to his hand was his bedroll’s groundsheet, so he wrapped himself in that. “There’s no way to judge the time of their passage.”

  “Yes, the time! Tell me!” the man wailed. Roan picked up his watch, feeling as if he was exposed on a stage, and looked at the dial. “I have four-thirty-two, sir.”

  “That can’t be right, either!” The stranger was becoming very distressed, and Roan worried what kind of dreamer was suffering through a nightmare of being unable to find the correct time.

  “This could just be an ordinary Public Nudity Dream,” Misha said. He’d pulled an armload of odd things out of his pack to cover himself, and had a book open upside down on his lap. Alette had taken down her hair, and arranged it across her chest to conceal her bosom.

  “Too strong,” Bergold said, with a shake of his head. “Roan has been through Changeover unaltered. That storm must have had the full weight of Brom’s group behind it. They are getting more powerful and dangerous. We’ve reached a kind of breaking point. This is a very subtle and powerful kind of influence, if Brom can do what the Sleepers couldn’t.”

  “Dear lady,” the man appealed to the princess, “surely you can tell me what time it is?”

  “It’s just about half past four,” Leonora said. Her watch was a dainty affair on a diamond-studded chain that she drew up out of her cloud covering to examine. The man shook his head sadly, and went to Felan.

  “Do you . . .” he began.

  Felan snarled, and started to raise a hand to him. “Would you get out of here? We’re on an important mission.”

  “This is important, too!”

  “Push off!” Felan looked as if he was on the edge of striking out.

  “Smile!” a cheerful woman said, stepping out into the middle of the road. She held put a large camera to her eye, and pushed the shutter release. The flashbulb exploded under the nose of Colenna’s horse, making it buck. She aimed her lens at Roan, who raised his hand to forestall her, then dropped it again to cover himself. The flashbulb went off in his face. “Page one!”

  Blinded and embarrassed, Roan turned away.

  “Excuse me,” a little boy said, appearing at Roan’s stirrup. “How do I get to the store?”

  “Where’s the bathroom?” a little girl on Roan’s other side asked him.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know,” Roan said, looking from one to the other. Was he decent? Would the shock of seeing grownups naked affect them all their lives?

  “I beg your pardon,” said an elegant woman wearing a huge red hat like a boat under full sail, “but where is the ladies’ lingerie section? Goodness, look at you! You should be ashamed!”

  Dozens of people appeared out of nowhere, getting in the way of the horses and each other. They went from one person to another, asking for directions, or for help with simple tasks, or pleading for spare change. All of them stopped to stare or comment on Roan’s lack of clothes. Instead of behaving nonchalantly, like Felan, Roan felt more ridiculous every time someone pointed at him.

  “Come along,” Bergold said, firmly, coming to the rescue, his book at the ready. “This is not just a Public Nudity Dream. It has an Unanswerable Questions Variation.” He picked up his reins, and clicked his tongue to urge his horse forward. “Behind me, Roan! Everyone! Excuse me, please! We’re coming through. Thank you. Excuse me. Pardon me. I beg your pardon. . . .” The crowd continued to get underfoot and block their way, but slowly Bergold led them out of the throng behind his pink and gray horse. Roan forced himself to ignore the comments he heard.

  “Smile!” said the photographer cheerily, letting off another blinding flash in their faces. Cruiser whinnied and jerked his head, but Bergold’s imperturbable steed just kept walking. “Thank you! This will be in the paper tomorrow! And just one more. . . .”

  “Sorry,” Bergold said, politely but firmly. “This is a picture of us leaving.”

  “Look,” Colenna said, pointing off to the side of the road. “There’s a fig tree. Quick, someone.”

  “I will,” Misha said, gallantly. He walked his horse carefully towards it, avoiding unnecessary jouncing in the saddle.

  “I’m so co-co-cold!” Leonora said. Roan glanced at her again. He was almost unable to help himself; she had such a perfect figure, and his subconscious wanted to make sure he got another look. Fortunately, the opaque veil hid everything—almost. She gave him a playful sidelong glance and shook her head.

  “Here’s something, ma’am,” Alette said, spurring to Leonora’s side. She was scarlet-faced, but thinking of her liege before her own comfort. She held out a handful of woolly caterpillars to Leonora. “It’s bound to be a bad winter, with all of these in the trees.”

  “Thank you, Private,” Leonora said. “Won’t you keep some for yourself?”

  “Not regulation, ma’am,” the guard said, shortly. Alette’s spine was very stiff, as though she was wondering if it was all right to feel modest while on duty.

  Roan kept his eyes fixed on her hands as Leonora spun them out to form a lacy but warm shawl, which she threw over her shoulders. It fitted itself around her, and she nestled into it gratefully.

  Misha returned. He edged to the princess’s side, holding out a handful of fig leaves, with his head turned gallantly away. Leonora gave Roan a meaning-filled look before stretching out her hand for them. He and she might be old friends, but they weren’t affianced yet. Roan turned his back, and shot a glance at Felan to suggest he’d better do the same at once. The skinny historian might have no respect for Roan’s normalcy, but he knew better than to risk his influence.

  Misha offered fig leaves to everyone else, who separated to a decent distance to don these makeshift undergarments. Roan put the leaves in place on his person, and changed them quickly into a singlet and shorts. As soon as he was decently covered, the tension and mortification fled. It was so good to have clothes on again. His brain seemed to unlock. He could think again.

  How vulnerable he was, when a simple state of undress could undo him so thoroughly. Why hadn’t he done what Leonora had done, and made himself an opaque covering, or made clothes out of air molecules? He had the control to do it, but it hadn’t occurred to him to try. Brom’s power had put him off his guard. Roan wasn’t used to having to think about the randomness everyone else suffered at the whims of the Sleepers and passing wisps of influence. He must contemplate that when he had a chance. In the meantime, there were tasks he could do, and do well.

  “Captain Spar, may I be of assistance to you and your soldiers?” he asked, raising his voice.

  The guards sat at attention on their horses in a row facing away from the rest of the party, not looking at one another. They’d all covered their personal parts, front and back, with the leaves, but were unable to alter them to suit.

  “We’d be grateful, sir,” Spar said, staring straight ahead of him. “Can’t do anything with this damned vegetation. Regulation suits, if you please.”

  “Right you are,” Roan said, rubbing his hands together. “You’ll have to instruct me as I go.”

  “ ‘A full length body covering with arms to the wrist bone and legs to just below the ankle bone with nine buttons from neck to junction of legs in front and two buttons securing regulation flap of not less than fifty-four square inches in rear,’ ” Spar barked, as if reciting a paragraph from a manual. Without actually touching the leaves, Roan used influence to stretch out their substance until they covered the guard captain’s whole body from the neck down. Fig leaves were marvelously elastic. Their nature was such that they would compl
etely cover whatever parts one required in order to preserve modesty. “ ‘The material shall be of a good grade of red cloth, wool in winter, flannel in spring and autumn, and cotton in summer. . . .’ ”

  “This’d be at least autumn, sir,” Lum put in hopefully, also staring straight ahead. Roan made the necessary alterations, specifying a smooth, itchproof wool flannel.

  “ ‘. . . The buttons to be of wood or horn or plastic, depending upon materials available, but able to pass army stress tests, see regulation number 245.a, subheading 34-UW.’ Thank you, sir,” Spar finished in the same rapid-fire voice, but he looked relieved. Once covered, the guards’ backs relaxed. Roan thought the standard issue design looked warm and even comfortable. He changed his singlet and shorts for a similar union suit.

  Colenna returned to the road clad in an all-over undergarment that covered her from shoulders to knees. It was formfitting from her shoulders, over her large bust and down to her waist. The skirting draped loosely over her hips and knees. Spar kept turning away so as not to stare at her, but she was as unconcerned as if she was wearing a suit of armor. “What now?” she asked the others. “Grass skirts? Barkskin suits?”

  “This land is nearly bare of vegetation,” Bergold said, checking about him. “It’ll have to be mudcloth.”

  “Good enough! It’s been years since I tried that,” Colenna said, pleased.

  “Will it be comfortable enough for the princess?” Roan asked, concerned at the sound of it.

  “Oh, Roan,” Leonora said. Under her cloud-covering, Roan glimpsed the outline of scanty underthings in periwinkle blue. A garment like Colenna’s would have been practical, but he admitted that those were far more attractive. “We’re all in this together. I’ll do what everyone else has to do.” Colenna eyed her. “I can make you a dress out of your tent.”

  “Good,” Roan said. “Please do that.”

  “No, no special privileges, please!” Leonora protested.

  “It’d be my pleasure, dear,” Colenna fluttered a hand at Roan. “You go on. We’ll stay right here.”

  The mud alongside the road proved to be malleable, and was easily rolled out into a heavy fabric that appeared to have been block-printed in earth-toned colors. Roan was grateful for his new clothes, and made his cloak and cap double-thick against the steadily increasing wind. When he returned, he had to stifle his smile. Leonora glared at him between folds and folds of white fabric that lay draped over her shoulders and head. Colenna’s talents in dressmaking were limited, to say the least. The draperies looked warm, albeit clumsy. He opened his mouth to say so.

  “Don’t!” Leonora said, lifting a warning finger out of the midst of her all-enveloping garment. “Not one word!”

  Chapter 20

  They took to the road again. The delay had been annoying, but Roan was relieved to have found a further sign of the gestalt, although not enough to be satisfactory to all. Spar was perturbed about the loss of his guards’ uniforms, muttering darkly about a lack of discipline, and laughingstocks. Roan missed his old boots most of all. He had had them for years, through numerous adventures, including the second Changeover. Those boots conformed to every arch and curve of his feet. The substitutes he had made out of slips of fig bark and mudcloth were simply not the same, although, Roan thought, looking down at them, they could grow on him after a while. Their clay origin enabled them to model themselves to a maker’s design. They were already taking on the appearance of formal shoes, more suited to his personality. Soon, they might be black leather, with comfortable insoles and extra wide toe boxes.

  Suddenly, another pair of feet, in identical makeshift shoes, appeared on top of Cruiser’s stirrups. Roan found himself riding pillion behind another man, who glanced back over a shoulder. It was him—Roan! There were two of him on the horse’s back, both clad in printed cloaks and trousers. Roan flinched in surprise. He hopped backwards off the saddle.

  The second man pulled the horse over to the side of the road. Roan walked around to stare up at him. The other man looked down at him solemnly.

  “I could be looking in a mirror,” said the man on the horse.

  “How strange,” Leonora said, reining Golden Schwinn to a halt beside them. She looked from one to the other. “Which of you is the real Roan?”

  Roan felt a moment of doubt. Was he in his own body, or not? It was strange seeing himself doing something, and not feeling his muscles move.

  “I think he is,” Roan said, pointing.

  “He is the real one, I’m sure of it,” the double said, at the same time. And his motions were identical to those Roan had seen himself make reflected in mirrors and windows, but from this man, they looked more deliberate.

  “How would we know?” Roan asked, still staring in bewilderment. “I’ve lived all my life thinking I was an original person.”

  The double peered at him closely and touched his own cheek, then reached out and almost touched Roan’s. He hesitated, drawing his hand back. “You do look more real than I do,” he said.

  “I was going to say that to you,” Roan said. He felt a strange sense of disorientation, as if he was floating in space. If he faced the genuine Roan, who was he? And where did he come from? Perhaps the changeless person he had always been was a distant shadow of this man. It was possible. There was a historian’s theory that every person had a doppelgänger somewhere in the world who exactly resembled him. And this man certainly did. Chance had simply dictated that they had never met until now. The legend also said that you had to kill your doppelgänger, or he would kill you. He felt a thrill of terror. Roan knew he couldn’t kill himself. Was he about to die?

  “Are you sure?” It was Leonora’s voice, but it came from another young woman of stunning beauty riding up on a twin to Golden Schwinn. This Leonora had red hair, high cheekbones and long, almost slanted eyes. When he looked for his princess, she had just acquired the same characteristics.

  “I . . . I think so.” Roan studied his twin. “You’re the real one. You must be. But then, who am I?”

  “No, you are real,” the other said, just as earnestly. He dismounted and threw the reins to Roan. “I’m not. I couldn’t be. We shouldn’t have met. I . . . I’ll go away. Please don’t harm any of the others.”

  Roan looked at him, puzzled. “So the legend isn’t true?”

  “I hope not,” the other said, so sincerely Roan had to believe him. They breathed identical sighs of relief.

  The second Leonora took a moment to study the first one’s costume critically, even though she was robed in the same billowing white. The first princess straightened her skirts with a surreptitious use of influence so it resembled a gown instead of a tent dress. They exchanged nods, royalty to royalty. Roan sensed a little influence was exerted on each side, to make sure each looked her most beautiful while under scrutiny from a discerning eye. Roan knew that Leonora—his Leonora—was frightened, but her training kept her from showing it. Meanwhile, other duplicates were appearing. Two Mishas, long and lanky, gazed at each other in bemusement. Two Alettes gawked.

  “Leave, foul spirit!” Spar shouted, drawing his sword. He jumped off his steed. “Go on, get out of here, or I’ll split you!”

  “You get away,” the captain’s double yelled, with equal volume. He brandished his own sword, and set it ablaze. “You unnatural beast, you! I’ll kill you, and then you can’t kill me.”

  “Sir, stop them!” the Lums shouted, calling for Roan’s attention. “Captains, don’t!”

  “Halt!” the Roans cried, rushing in between the Spars, reaching for their sword hands. “The legend is a lie! He can’t harm you. Don’t fight!”

  But the Spars maneuvered around them like so many posts in a tilting yard, and ran at one another with an angry war cry. The princesses cringed and covered their eyes. The Spars raised their swords, and brought them down in a killing blow—

  —On empty air. The blades passed straight through their bodies, and into the ground between their feet. The Spars were insu
bstantial to one another. They stared at the buried blades in disbelief, then began laughing loudly from relief.

  “You!” Spar barked, gasping in breath with a big grin on his face. “Look at that! We couldn’t’ve bashed each other if we’d tried!”

  “Split each other! Good thing we couldn’t do it!” the other howled. “There’d be four of us.” Their knees collapsed under them, and they sat down on the ground, still laughing.

  The second Roan looked up at the first, and put out a hand to touch his arm. The fingers disappeared into the dark-printed sleeve as if into shadow. Roan’s double withdrew his hand with a worried look.

  I’m the ghost, Roan thought, and just as surely knew that his double was thinking the same thing.

  The two Colennas, friendly at once, sat down on the side of the road and compared the contents of their purses. Clearly, she, or they, didn’t believe in the legend. The Felans stood nearby, arms crossed, talking in low tones, sharing a smug joke at the expense of others in the party.

  “This is no time to be beside yourselves,” Bergold said, blinking large orange eyes. There were two of the plump historian, both of them currently giant owls perched on horseback. The wise heads turned in almost full circles to catch everyone’s attention. “We need to put our heads together and concentrate on our mission. It’s convenient that there are twice as many of them. Heads, I mean.”

  “But what about our doubles?” Lum asked. “I mean, he’s all right. I mean, he’s me, but . . . are we a party of twenty instead of ten?”

  “We’re two whole parties now,” Spar said. “Let’s split up into two groups. We can cover more ground this way.”

  “Right,” the second Spar said. “Brom can’t stay hidden with two of us on the trail. Let’s get moving.”

  “We can’t really do that,” the Bergold on the left said.

  “We’ve been thinking about this matter quite a bit,” the Bergold on the right added. “One or the other of us is a reflection caused by influence.”