The Tunnel of Dreams

by Bernard Beckett

  After thirty minutes the first log of wood crested the wall and, with a final twitch, fell to the other side. The winner did not scream with joy or perform a victory dance. She had nothing left in her and simply collapsed to the ground, as if holding herself up was now beyond her. All of the competitors were tiring. It seemed impossible to Stefan that they would find thirty winners.

  ‘Come on!’ Harriet groaned to herself. Her log had raised as high as her shoulder and was now trembling in the air. Harriet’s teeth were clenched and sweat beaded on her forehead. Somewhere along the line a second competitor gave a short cry of triumph before falling to the ground, exhausted.

  ‘Twenty-eight to go!’ Madame Latitude called jauntily, as if counting schoolchildren in through the door.

  Harriet was becoming increasingly distressed. She turned to Stefan, her face overtaken with despair. ‘It’s useless,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t do it.’

  Stefan watched her log fall back to earth with a thump. And then it came to him. Three rules. Don’t hurt another competitor’s chances, do your best, don’t communicate with home. There was nothing about helping another competitor’s chances.

  ‘Try again,’ Stefan whispered.

  Harriet shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Try again!’ Stefan looked along the line, to make sure no one was listening in, and then muttered, ‘You may not be able to lift the log alone, but maybe we can lift it between us.’

  The smile that broke over Harriet’s face was so warm and beautiful that for a moment Stefan forgot he could barely lift a twig. He turned to Harriet’s log and concentrated on it with all his might. In his head he pictured it rising steadily into the air. And to his great surprise, that was exactly what happened.

  A ball of excitement rose in Stefan’s throat. He didn’t dare look at Harriet, in case that broke the spell. Up the log rose. Up, up, up. Halfway to the top, two-thirds. Exhaustion swept over him: his vision blurred and his legs began to wobble. But he wouldn’t let his new friend down. Not now.

  The log bumped against the wall, no more than ten centimetres from the top, slipped back slightly and then rose again. As it reached the top of the wall Stefan gave a mighty shout and willed it over. The log scraped the top, swung back perilously, rolled forward again and then disappeared over the other side.

  Stefan and Harriet fell to the ground together, elated and empty. They had done it. Harriet was safe. A shadow moved across him and he opened his eyes to see Harriet standing over him. For some reason, she wasn’t smiling.

  ‘What?’ Stefan asked.

  ‘It isn’t over,’ Harriet replied.

  ‘It went over the top. You saw it.’

  ‘My log did,’ Harriet agreed. ‘But not yours. Come on. You can’t give up now.’

  Before Stefan could protest, Harriet had hauled him to his feet. He was so tired he could barely stand. All around he could see children lying on the grass, eyes closed, sucking in the air. That’s what he wanted to do. Why couldn’t she just…A cold hard hand slapped his face, bringing his world back into focus. Harriet looked properly angry now.

  ‘If I’m going through, so are you,’ she hissed.

  ‘Two places left!’ Madame Latitude called. ‘Come on children, cheer on our last competitors.’

  Stefan wondered if anyone would notice Harriet was focussing on his log, and if they did, whether it would get them both disqualified. But there was no time for such thoughts now, because right before his eyes, his log began to rise into the air.

  ‘Come on,’ Harriet said. ‘I can’t do this by myself.’

  ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing,’ Stefan replied.

  ‘Just do what you did with mine.’

  Stefan wanted to complain but he could see Harriet’s legs beginning to shake. ‘Don’t think about the log,’ Harriet told him. ‘Be the log. Imagine it is you, floating in the air.’

  A huge cheer broke Stefan’s concentration as another competitor’s log went over, and Stefan’s log slipped back.

  ‘One place left!’ Madame Latitude announced. ‘Who will be our final competitor?’

  The cheering grew louder. The other candidates were all on their feet now, screaming for their favourite.

  Stefan blocked out the sound. Be the log, he told himself. Float in the air. And just like that, the tension fell from his shoulders, his legs stopped wobbling, and the log rose with an easy grace, not stopping when it reached the top of the wall but rising higher still, until it could barely be seen at all. The crowd fell silent. Somebody gasped.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Harriet demanded. ‘Let it go!’

  Stefan relaxed completely and the log plummeted from the sky. It was unclear which side of the wall it would land on, and the more nervous competitors screamed, afraid it was about to hit them. But the log fell safely on the other side, hitting the ground with such force that Stefan felt a small tremor beneath his feet.

  ‘It looks as if someone has been toying with us,’ Madame Latitude called above the noise, and Stefan could swear he saw her smirking. ‘We have found our competitors for the next round. Congratulations to you all. The rest of you, pack your bags. A cart is waiting to take you home.’

  Harriet rushed forward and hugged Stefan tightly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘You helped me, too,’ Stefan reminded her.

  That afternoon at lunch, Stefan could feel the eyes of the room on him and Harriet. It was widely known they had helped each other with the challenge. Stefan wondered why nobody had reported them.

  ‘Everybody’s watching us,’ he told Harriet.

  ‘So, that’s good,’ she replied.

  ‘I don’t think it is.’

  ‘It means they think we’re a threat, and we are.’ Harriet smiled, as if there was nothing in the world to worry about, but Stefan wasn’t so sure. As if to prove his point, there was a sudden commotion at the far end of the dining room: a boy jumped back from his seat, a loud cheer followed and then laughing.

  ‘Whoever threw the gravy, stand up at once!’ the Major bellowed. He strode across the room and stood behind the poor victim, who was covered in warm gloopy sauce. It was clear the gravy had not been thrown, but rather poured slowly over his head.

  ‘Who did this?’ the Major demanded again.

  Nobody answered, but two tables from Stefan, Malcolm Strawbridge smirked.

  ‘Malcolm Strawbridge,’ Harriet muttered. ‘You know he was the winner today? We’re going to have to be careful of him.’

  ‘Why?’ Stefan asked.

  As if to answer, a bowl of mashed potatoes suddenly rose up off the table, hovered for a second and flew across the table towards Stefan. For a split second he thought it would knock him off his chair, but at the last moment the bowl stopped abruptly. The potato, however, kept moving. Stefan felt it land thick and gooey across his face.

  The Major’s protests were drowned out by another round of laughter.

  Harriet leaned forward, so as to be heard above the din. ‘It means he’s worried about you,’ she smiled. ‘Honestly, that’s good.’

  IF ARLO THOUGHT he’d got the easy job staying back in the camp with Alice he was wrong. He had barely fallen asleep that night before she was tugging at his sleeping bag. He opened a bleary eye and was blinded by her headlamp.

  ‘Come on, time to get up!’ she ordered.

  ‘But it’s still night,’ Arlo protested.

  ‘Exactly,’ Alice replied. ‘You can sleep again when the sun’s up.’

  Arlo pulled the sleeping bag up around his ears but Alice pulled it back. He sighed and sat up.

  ‘I was having an awful sleep anyway,’ he said. ‘I dreamed I was being held captive in a tree trunk by a bully of a girl who wouldn’t listen to a single thing I said.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have tried listening to her instead,’ Alice grinned. ‘You might have learned something. Come on, you can wear your headlamp till we get near the edge of the forest if you lik
e, special treat. And bring your knife.’

  ‘What for?’ Arlo asked.

  ‘Protection.’

  Before he could ask anything else, like what he might need protection from, or what they were looking for or how they would know when they’d found it, Alice had already slipped through the gap and out into the chill night air. Arlo pulled on his boots and followed. They didn’t feel as tight today. Perhaps that was because his feet had shrunk in the cold, or the leather had stretched, or he’d just got used to them. Probably the last one, he decided. He hadn’t realised how comfortable his old life was, with its mattresses and running shoes and chocolate milk.

  Moving through the bush was easier with the light of the headlamps and they were soon at the edge of the farmland. Arlo noted, with a small feeling of pride, that he could find his way back now if he had to. They crouched at the ridge and looked down on the port town. Just like the previous night, it sat lumpen and grey beneath them. There were no lights, save two hanging lamps at the entrance to the docks and, on the farthest headland, the intermittent sweep of a lighthouse. On the hill opposite, the mine glowed menacingly. But in the town itself curtains were tightly drawn, with only the occasional smudge of dim light visible through a window.

  ‘Okay.’ Alice scanned the scene a second time then stood up. ‘Onward.’

  ‘No, down!’ Arlo urged and hit the ground flat, his face turned into the soil. Alice did the same, instantly and without question.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered to him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Arlo replied, as surprised as she was by the words that had come out of his mouth. ‘I just…I had a feeling.’

  Alice didn’t move, or try to mock him. Instead she said, ‘Okay. Well tell me when the feeling passes.’

  ‘You mean you think there really is—’

  ‘Over there, see?’ Alice raised a finger, pointing to the southern sky. Arlo could make out the outline of two birds, soaring high, moving steadily away.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Ruru,’ Alice told him. ‘I think they use them as lookouts.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was her favourite answer. ‘Everything is different here. But you felt them. Your magic felt them; it’s protecting us.’

  Arlo didn’t know whether to feel proud or frightened. He longed to send a message to his brother, but Alice had warned him that the Academy was full of magic and there was too much chance that somebody would intercept it.

  They followed a fence line down to the edge of the town and then moved stealthily through the streets, like stray cats in search of rubbish, or a fight. Alice had told him it took twenty minutes for eyes to properly adjust to darkness and now he could see what she meant. He was surprised how easily he could make out the details of the night world. So it was that they saw the shadow moving across a wooden fence before its owner appeared. They pulled back around the corner of a small house and waited. Alice crouched with her nose poked out at the level of a small dog. Arlo’s heart thumped time, ten seconds, fifteen, twenty.

  ‘Okay, let’s go,’ Alice whispered.

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘We’re following him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see where he’s going.’ And as always she was moving before there was any chance for Arlo to argue.

  Alice didn’t so much walk as flow, each foot barely touching the ground before lifting again. She floated through the narrow streets, always ready to pull back, press against the side of a building and melt into nothingness. Arlo did all he could to follow her lead, but it was clear that she was a natural, her skills honed from years of practice, whereas he was, at best, an able mimicker. Twice the shadowy figure ahead stopped, as if certain he had heard somebody behind him, and turned to peer back into the darkness. Both times Arlo was sure they had been caught, but he stood as still as a statue just as Alice did, eyes to the ground, waiting.

  Five minutes into their shadowing pursuit the man stopped for a third time, and on this occasion looked both left and right before stepping quickly down a short path to a doorway that was barely visible in the shadows. The knock, though carefully quiet, carried clearly along the street. Three rapid taps, a pause, and two slower ones. A secret code. Alice looked back to Arlo, her face bright in triumph.

  ‘Told you he was worth following.’

  ‘You don’t know what he’s up to,’ Arlo said.

  ‘No, but I know he’s up to something,’ Alice replied. ‘Come on then.’

  ‘You’re not going to knock on the door, are you?’ Arlo asked.

  ‘Of course I’m not going to knock on the door,’ Alice replied. ‘Do I look stupid to you?’

  Any relief Arlo felt was short-lived. Alice led him down the side of the house and over a wooden fence into a small backyard.

  ‘We’re not—’

  ‘Breaking in? I am. You can stay out here and stand guard if you prefer.’

  Arlo didn’t prefer. Whatever was going to happen, he would rather it happened with Alice at his side. She was undoubtedly the most dangerous person he had ever met, and exactly the sort of person he wanted close if things got difficult.

  ‘How are you still alive?’ Arlo asked her.

  ‘Mostly luck,’ Alice replied. ‘And loyalty. Here, that window looks good.’ She pointed to a window high above them, out of reach and firmly closed.

  ‘And how are you—’

  He needn’t have asked. Springing silently to a foothold Arlo hadn’t even noticed, Alice gripped the window ledge with one hand and worked her knife into the gap between window and frame with the other.

  There was a small click and she pulled the window open. Alice boosted herself halfway through, presumably to check for danger inside, then turned and reached down.

  ‘Jump up and grab my hand. Try not to kick against the wall on the way up. They’ll hear it.’

  It took Arlo three attempts before he made contact. Alice was strong, there was no doubt about it, and she made pulling Arlo up seem effortless.

  Arlo tumbled into cramped kitchen that was alive with smells: smoke from an open fire, the remains of bygone meals reheated on the range, dampness in the walls, the unmistakable sharp dust-scent of hessian, and mixed through it all some kind of incense. Arlo felt the choking fear of being trapped. What would happen if they were discovered? Would they be beaten, imprisoned, executed? Where did the doors lead? How many people were in here? What were they doing and why were they keeping it secret? All these questions pushed hard on Arlo, urging him back to the safety of the street. But Alice moved to the only door and pressed her ear against it, listening intently, her eyes flicking from one side to the other, her head slightly tilted. She stepped back, apparently puzzled, and gestured for Arlo to move closer.

  ‘Use your magic,’ she whispered. ‘Put your hand on the door, and tell me if you feel any danger on the other side.’

  ‘I can’t…’ Arlo began. But protest was pointless. He put his hand on the door. He had no idea what danger was supposed to feel like. He closed his eyes and was preparing to invent an answer when he felt a warm, comforting sensation flow from his fingertips to the palm of his hand, as if a summer breeze was tickling the skin. He looked back at Alice, his eyes wide and mouth open.

  ‘Safe?’ Alice asked.

  Arlo nodded. Alice brushed him aside and pulled the door slightly open, peering into the tiny slit of light that appeared. She breathed deeply, then straightened and opened the door far enough to pass through. The hinges did not squeak, dogs did not bark, nobody attacked them. They moved silently into a narrow hallway. Directly ahead of them was the front door through which the stranger had entered. On the right was another door, closed, and to their left was a stairway, leading both up to what must have been sleeping quarters and down into some kind of basement.

  The thing about basements, Arlo realised was that they would provide no escape from the building. No doors, no windows. If they descended their only way out would
be back the way they had come. Yet still Alice crept down the stairs, and still he followed her.

  They came to another door, this one more roughly made, with gaps between its boards. Gaps big enough to spy through. Arlo could hear a low hum coming from the other side.

  Alice knelt and put her eye to one of the cracks. Arlo moved cautiously forward and leaned over the top of her, one eye closed, the other against a narrow slit of his own. He could make out five people in all. Four faced away from him and were on their knees, backs straight and heads held high. All wore black hooded gowns. They appeared to be focused on the fifth man, who stood before them. He also wore a hooded gown, although his was a deep purple. He held a wooden stake above his head. It was as long and thick as his forearm and sharpened to a vicious point. Shadow fell across his face, his features blurred in darkness, but Arlo was captivated by the special blackness of his eyes. It was impossible to look away.

  The humming deepened, and above it rose the leader’s voice, thin and frail, like cracks in glass.

  ‘You called me,’ cried the voice. ‘And I am here, as I promised I would be. As I promise I always will be. For our time grows closer, and so we remain, watchful and ready.’

  ‘Lord Haven,’ the other voices replied together. ‘We are watchful, and we are ready.’

  Then there was silence, so sudden and complete that it stopped Arlo’s heart. He felt cold, and a shiver ran up his back and across his shoulders. Later, when he was asked, he would doubt he had ever seen it, but in that moment he was sure the leader’s eyes turned from black to red. And then he simply disappeared, leaving his robes to collapse into a pile on the floor. The four worshippers’ heads dropped, and from one arm of the robe Arlo was sure he saw a small rat emerge, sniff the air and then scurry across the floor and into a gap in the wall.