I stared out across the field where dreambenders worked in the starlight, looking for danger and snuffing it out, making the world a better place. Then I got up and walked across the grass toward home.
Later that night, I dreamed I was riding a bicycle. The wind blew through my hair. I came to the lake I had seen earlier. The water was deep and still. On the other side, far away, was a sound. It was forbidden. I should have turned away. But it was beautiful.
Someone was singing.
4
Callie
This is how computing is done.
You sit at a desk with piles of paper in front of you. The papers are filled with numbers.
Some days you simply add, subtract, multiply, and divide—food costs, mileages, weights, salaries, taxes, water usage, all the hundreds and thousands and millions of calculations that keep the world going. Other days you work on a higher level, observing the totals, arranging them on a page, looking for patterns and meaning. Which neighborhoods consume the most food? Does this affect their buying levels? How do salaries and taxes figure in, and what’s the relationship among these factors? The patterns are my specialty. City officials come to me for information. Once I even met the governors.
The patterns are fascinating. Some are beautiful, but they only go so far. I wonder what’s beyond the calculations, behind the patterns, over and above and beneath it all. Some days I think I can glimpse it. Other days, all I see are numbers. I find what I can, then make some marks in a book. A collector takes the book. I move on to the next pile.
There are rows and rows of desks in the computing center. My desk is near the door. That way, when the bell sounds for breaks, it’s easy to go outside and watch the people. I take deep breaths and try to clear away the numbers that hang around my head like cobwebs.
On break the next day, I looked out over the busy street and remembered the young man on the sickle. He had worn an expression I didn’t often see in the City. His face had shown fear, but there was also excitement. He wasn’t thinking about the past. He was entering the future. It couldn’t be counted or predicted. Anything could happen. He might crash. He might fall. He might go so fast that he would lift off the ground and fly between buildings, over the scrapers, up to the sun and stars.
I saw three girls my age painting the wall of a storefront next door. They had white coveralls that were splashed with color. What I noticed most was the way they talked and laughed. They seemed to be friends, which was unusual in the City. Most of us were too busy to have friends. We had families and jobs and responsibilities, but not many friends, and certainly not much time to laugh. I watched them for a while, then wandered over.
“I like your clothes,” I said.
One of the girls, small and wiry, looked up. “They’re kind of messy.”
“That’s what I like,” I said. “You know—the colors. The mess.”
She glanced at one of her friends, a pudgy girl with a blond ponytail, and rolled her eyes.
I wasn’t supposed to see it. The third girl, dark and lanky, chuckled.
“They think you’re strange,” she told me. “I think that’s good.”
She held out a paint-stained hand, and I shook it. She had a firm grip. “I’m Eleesha.”
“Callie,” I said.
“The eye-rollers are Juanita and Pam. We’re painters. In our spare time, we’re painters.”
I cocked my head. “Huh?”
Eleesha glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then opened her bag. Inside were some small wooden frames with canvas stretched across them. The canvases were blank except for one, on which was painted a picture of the City—people, animals, buildings. The picture throbbed with color, as alive as the scene around me.
“Did you do that?” I asked.
Eleesha nodded. “We work on these after dark, using leftover paints from the daytime. I did this one a few nights ago.”
“Don’t show her that,” said Juanita, scanning the area.
“She’s okay,” said Eleesha. “I can tell.”
“Why are you worried?” I asked Juanita. “It’s just a picture.”
Juanita and Pam exchanged glances. Juanita said, “We use the City’s paints. They might not like that.”
“You know how they are,” added Pam.
“Who do you mean by ‘they’?” I asked.
“You know,” said Juanita. “The people in charge.”
“The governors?”
I thought about the elected board that ensured the City ran smoothly. We called them governors. But I had a feeling Juanita and Pam were referring to something else.
“Let’s not talk about it,” said Pam nervously.
“Why shouldn’t we?” asked Juanita. She turned to me, her eyes flashing. “Do you ever have the feeling we’re not in control? I’m not talking about laws or rules. I’m talking about…something else. Something you can’t see.”
Eleesha said, “Sometimes when I wake up in the night, it seems like someone is in the room with me. Then I look around, and no one’s there. Does that ever happen to you?”
I thought about it for a minute. “Maybe. I thought it was just a dream.”
Juanita said, “Whatever it is, we gave it a name. Them.”
“You probably think we’re crazy,” said Pam, giggling anxiously.
“It’s just a game we play,” said Eleesha. “It’s our secret, okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
Eleesha studied my face. “You seem different.”
“From what?”
She nodded toward the computing center. “From the other people who work there. They look at us like we’re dirty. But this is just paint. We’re doing our jobs, the same as they are.”
I took another look at the little canvas in her bag. “Your picture is beautiful. You can almost see the people moving.”
Eleesha glanced at her friends then seemed to make a decision. “Would you like to come?”
Juanita glared at her, but Eleesha barely noticed. She watched me, her gaze connecting us as surely as a thick, strong cable.
“Come?” I said. “Where?”
“To the Midway. We’ll be painting tonight. It’s better after dark. We bring lanterns. You’ll see.”
“I don’t know…”
“You can watch us,” she said. “You can try it yourself if you want.”
The bell sounded at the computing center. It was time to work.
“Tonight?” said Eleesha. “Come late, after everyone is asleep.”
She scribbled directions on a scrap of paper and handed it to me; then the three of them turned and went back to their job.
Watching them, I wondered what it would be like to roam the City in the middle of the night. The thought thrilled and frightened me. There might be danger. There might be beauty.
Maybe I would be surprised. Maybe, like the sickle rider, I would fly over the buildings and up to the stars.
***
The Midway was a jungle of shapes and shadows. There were rusted-out machines, but no one knew what they were for. One was tall and round, like a giant wheel. Another had rails that had sprung free, sticking out like a bad haircut. Metal carts littered the area, apparently made to sit in, though I couldn’t imagine why.
The Midway was in the City but somehow not a part of it. It was as if, when people had reclaimed the City, they had taken one look at the Midway and given up. There were rumors it had been devoted entirely to fun, if you can imagine that.
The place had been fenced off years ago, but according to the directions Eleesha had given me, there was a way in. I found it at the end of an alley, where some of the fencing was loose. I squeezed inside, wondering why I was there.
Getting there had been surprisingly easy. I had waited until my parents were asleep, then opened my window and clim
bed out. Catchers patrolled the streets, but there weren’t many of them. City dwellers love sunshine and fear darkness. We have lanterns to use at night, but most of us prefer the daylight, so we go to sleep and wake up with the sun.
I hurried along, pausing every once in a while to look at the stars. Soon the Midway loomed in front of me, its strange shapes silhouetted against the sky. A few minutes later, I was inside.
“You made it!” said a voice.
I glanced up and saw Eleesha holding a lantern. She was wearing the same paint-splattered coveralls as before, and her face had a warm glow. I hadn’t noticed before, but there was something sad about her.
“My friends didn’t think you’d come,” she said. “Then we heard noises, and I knew it was you.”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure why I came. Just curious, I guess.”
She led me around the giant wheel to a series of curved steps leading down to an open area. The steps seemed like places where people would sit to watch a show. I wondered what kind of show might have been given before the Warming. I pictured the people sitting there, laughing and applauding, delighted by something I couldn’t imagine.
Juanita and Pam were sprawled halfway down the steps, lanterns at their sides, with paints and the canvases spread out in front of them. Juanita looked up when we approached.
“Oh great,” she said.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I told her.
“You already did.”
I looked over her shoulder at the canvas she’d been working on. It was full of dark colors—maroons, purples, blacks. At the center was a bright red slash. At first I thought the canvas had been ripped, then I realized it had been done with paints.
I nodded toward the canvas. “What is it?”
She shrugged and looked away.
Next to her, Pam seemed completely absorbed in her painting. Eleesha noticed me watching her.
“Pam goes deep,” she said. “Sometimes it takes her a while to come back out.”
Pam’s canvas couldn’t have been more different from Juanita’s. Yellows leaped out, with bright blues and greens. Something was taking shape, but I couldn’t tell what.
I looked up at Eleesha. “What are you painting?”
“Nothing yet,” she said. “I’m waiting for an idea to float by.”
“Is that how it works?” I asked.
“Sometimes. Other times it comes so fast, you can’t keep up.”
Juanita, who had gone back to her canvas, said, “Can we just paint?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll watch.”
I settled on one of the steps. Eleesha set down the lantern and went back to her canvas.
I’m not sure how long they worked. They had been talkative in the City, but now they were silent and thoughtful. Words didn’t seem necessary. Color was everything.
A boxy brown structure took shape on Eleesha’s canvas. I recognized it as one of the mysterious carts that dotted the Midway. Juanita’s slash darkened, and she added smaller slashes.
Out of Pam’s bright colors, an odd-looking building emerged. As she finished the picture, she shook her head as if coming out of a trance. Seeing me, she smiled.
“Oh, hello. We saw you in the City.”
“I like your painting,” I told her.
“It’s the Music Place.”
Music. The word made my skin tingle. If you said it out loud, people flinched and changed the subject. The funny thing was, I liked saying it. I liked thinking about it. I always had, though I wasn’t sure why.
I studied Pam’s canvas. It showed a building with points and curves, like a stack of shapes, like the sails of a ship.
Eleesha set down her brush and reached inside her bag, bringing out a container and four cups. I wondered why there were four, then realized she must have been hoping I’d come.
“Let’s have some tea,” she said.
She poured it from the container into the cups and handed them out. We sat on the steps, sipping quietly.
“I like this,” I said. “Not just the tea—all of it.”
“We don’t do it just because we like it,” said Juanita. “We need it. We look at the world and see things. We put them down on paper to show how we feel. We’re painters—not the City kind. Our kind. My kind.”
As she spoke, I felt something stir inside me. I turned to Pam. “Eleesha said you go deep. What does that mean?”
Pam’s cheeks reddened. “I’m not sure. Things seem different when I paint.”
Eleesha said, “Have you ever had the feeling you were doing what you were made for?”
She nodded toward a moth that fluttered around her lantern. “Moths seek light. Birds fly. Spiders make webs. What about people? What about you? What were you made for?”
“I’m a computer,” I said.
Juanita snorted. “See? I told you.”
Eleesha said, “The choosers tell us what we are. Maybe they’re wrong. They want the three of us to paint buildings, but we paint pictures.”
“They don’t like art,” said Pam. “I can’t imagine why. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s more than that,” said Juanita. “It’s ours, not something chosen for us. We choose. All of us are choosers, or should be.”
Eleesha nodded. “The funny thing is, sometimes we forget.”
“Forget?” I said.
“The pictures. The art. The feeling of the painting. Isn’t it strange? We forget the things we love the most.”
An idea flickered in the darkness, then disappeared. I tried to get it back, but it was gone.
“Luckily,” said Eleesha, smiling at her friends, “it doesn’t happen for all of us at the same time. I forget, and they remind me. They forget, and I remind them. The next night, we’re back at the Midway, painting.”
Juanita eyed me uneasily. “Don’t tell anyone. You have to promise.”
“You can trust me,” I told her.
“That’s what they said too.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Some people. We thought they were friends. We showed them our paintings, and they told the catchers. Ever since, we’ve had to be careful.”
Juanita studied the red slash on her painting. “Nobody understands. The keepers are the worst. What’s so special about old things? Why should we worship cemeteries? I’d rather make new things, like our paintings.”
I thought of my parents. Did they understand? Were they stuck in the past? I decided not to mention them, for now at least.
When we finished our tea, Eleesha and her friends packed their things. A few minutes later we split up and headed home. I started toward my house but wasn’t ready for the night to end. Turning back, I looked for Eleesha and saw her duck down a side street.
I hurried after her, hoping to catch up. I started to call out, but something about the way she moved made me hesitate. She darted from shadow to shadow as if she didn’t want to be seen.
At the far end of the street, she looked around nervously, then slipped past a gleaming metal gate. Beyond it were trees, bushes, and grass, like a park but different. Perfectly maintained, lovingly cared for, it was the last place I would have expected to find Eleesha or her friends. It was a cemetery.
5
Callie
I followed, afraid to speak but too curious to turn back. When Eleesha entered the cemetery, her steps slowed and her shoulders slumped. She paused to pick a handful of daisies, then moved along a row of gravestones, sure of where she was going but apparently not eager to get there.
At the end of the row, in front of a small granite monument, she stopped for a few moments. Then she continued on to a bench under a nearby tree. She cleared away a bouquet of withered flowers from the bench, replaced it with the handful of daisies, and sat down.
Watching from behind a tree, I felt
terrible. I didn’t like sneaking around or spying on people. My mother always says, “When you’re wrong, admit it. Face up to your mistakes.” So I took a deep breath and stepped into the open.
“Hello again,” I said.
Eleesha flinched and looked up. “You followed me.” There was pain on her face, and her eyes were wet.
I said, “I’m sorry. I wanted to talk some more and was surprised to see you come here.”
Eleesha glanced around, taking in the perfect rows of gravestones but looking somewhere past them. “My friends don’t know about it. They hate this place. They say it’s where people worship the past.”
I had discovered Eleesha’s secret. It seemed only fair to tell her mine.
“My parents study the past,” I said. “They’re keepers. I should have told you before.”
She took it in, nodding. I had the feeling you could tell Eleesha anything and she would do the same thing: listen, nod, try to understand.
“I’ll leave,” I said, turning to go.
“Don’t you want to know?” she asked.
“Know what?”
“Why I’m here.”
I said, “Only if you want to tell me.”
She inclined her head toward the gravestone where she had stopped. “My grandmother’s buried over there. I used to visit her grave when I was little. It was so peaceful. But that’s not why I come back now.”
I wanted to know but decided to let Eleesha tell me in her own way.
She said, “If a twin dies, are you still twins?”
I remembered something my father had once told me. I said to Eleesha, “When you lose an arm, you can still feel it. It could be the same with twins.”
“Maybe,” she replied.
“Did you have a twin?”
She nodded. “We weren’t identical. He was a boy. We didn’t even look that much alike. But there was something special between us.”
“What happened to him?” I asked. “Unless you’d rather not say.”
“I want to. My parents don’t like to talk about it, and it makes Pam and Juanita uncomfortable.”
Dreambender Page 3
