Dreamweavers: Awakening

Morphing.

  ‘Well, that explains it then,’ said Sophie, who was staring at Tristram’s backside as it walked away from them.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ryan, who most certainly was not looking at the same thing. ‘Looks like I’ll be ordering a mini-fridge for Christmas.’

  ‘Hmm?’ murmured Sophie, off in a world of her own – the only other occupant of which was Tristram.

  ‘Oh forget it,’ said Ryan moodily, and he went to find a stick.

  He found a gnarled, dried out branch half-buried under a pile of leaves and spent a few minutes pacing around the knot of trees trying to work out what to do with it. There were very few of the others still around, so he had no one to pinch ideas from. He wondered whether they had succumbed to the same burning hunger he and his friends had experienced the night before.

  A bluebottle buzzed lazily around his head and he swatted at it with the stick to ward it off. Ahead of him, Frédéric finally managed to achieve a morph and disappeared into thin air.

  ‘Come on, think,’ said Ryan out loud, annoyed at seeing someone else making progress.

  The bluebottle zipped past him again and he waved it away angrily.

  ‘Leave me alone will you, I’m trying to think!’ he snarled.

  The fly took no notice, banked sharply and headed straight back at him.

  ‘Sod off you little git!’ shouted Ryan, cocking his stick and pulling the trigger.

  An ear-splitting crack rent the air across the hilltop, rattling between the tree trunks before escaping out into the world beyond. A thin plume of smoke rose nonchalantly from the muzzle of the shotgun Ryan had created. The bluebottle had been obliterated.

  ‘Holy Chr…’ was all he managed before he was ejected from the hilltop and found himself tumbling back into the training room. He landed in a heap at the feet of a large man with four arms who he hadn’t seen before.

  ‘You okay there, son?’ came the smooth American accent.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Ryan. ‘Do I look okay?’

  ‘You look just fine,’ drawled the man, offering out one of his two right hands.

  Ryan went to take it, but the man moved it and presented the other. Ryan then made for that one, but found the first put forward again. This happened several times before the man, with a broad grin, let him take one of them and pulled him to his feet. Ryan did not find it particularly endearing.

  There came a large splash and Tristram’s majestic, winged form arrived in the room. There were gasps of wonder from an odd array of students seated on the benches, none of whom Ryan recognised. The four-armed American drew himself up and bristled at the new arrival.

  ‘Ryan, are you all right?’ asked Tristram, looking genuinely concerned and apparently not noticing the other occupants of the room.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ replied Ryan, flexing his fingers and rolling his neck experimentally.

  Tristram relaxed.

  ‘What the hell did you do?’

  ‘There was a fly buzzing around my head, and it was really annoying me, so I blasted the crap out of it with a shotgun.’

  Tristram’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Having trouble controlling your students, Ainsworth?’ asked the American, stepping forward. Tristram appeared to notice him for the first time and threw the man a scowl.

  ‘We’re getting on just fine, thanks Swift,’ he said curtly.

  ‘I can see that,’ replied the other man. ‘Do excuse us; we haven’t been properly introduced yet. Stanley Swift; Inductor and Protector. Skilled in Counter-weaving and Physical Evolution.’

  ‘And modest to boot,’ Ryan heard Tristram mutter.

  Swift ignored the comment and offered a hand to Ryan. The boy looked at it and wondered whether he would have to go through the same nonsense again.

  ‘Ryan Butler; creator of sharp objects and things that go bang!’ he said, taking it at the second attempt – Swift clearly thought he needed a reminder of how many arms he had.

  ‘So, you’re becoming a weapons expert are you?’ asked Swift, standing tall with both pairs of hands on his hips. ‘Good for you, son. Better than this chump could manage, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’ve been working on a ‘weave to make your ego smaller, but I don’t think even Rasputin would be capable of dealing with something that big,’ said Tristram sarcastically.

  ‘Well, let me know when one of you is up to it,’ said Swift loftily, and he turned back to his class.

  Tristram motioned for Ryan to leave the room and the two of them headed out into the bright, airy walkway, down two flights of steps and out into the fresh air.

  ‘What about the others?’ asked Ryan.

  ‘You’re the last of the group,’ smiled Tristram. ‘Everyone else has woken up. You had a late start tonight.’

  ‘Sorry about that. My mum… oh never mind. Let’s just say my evening turned a bit crap.’

  ‘Domestic trouble?’ asked Tristram, spreading his wings and letting the breeze ruffle his dark feathers.

  ‘Something like that. Who was that idiot anyway?’

  Tristram chuckled.

  ‘That idiot, as you put it, was in my class when I was learning to Dreamweave. You could say we had a bit of a rivalry going on.’

  ‘A bit?’

  ‘Okay, a lot. We were good at similar things, you see. Both of us perform the same role here; we teach newcomers and help protect the isle from Rasputin’s raiders.

  ‘So is he better at it than you?’

  Tristram laughed again.

  ‘Hardly, although I’m sure that’s exactly what you’d expect me to say. Stan’s got a big mouth and isn’t afraid to use it. That’s not to say he isn’t skilful in what he does. He’s just not as good as he’d have you believe, otherwise he would be running this place by now.’

  ‘Did you put him in his place? Is that why he doesn’t like you?’

  ‘Kind of. Showed him up; that would be a better way of putting it. When the evidence is there for everyone to see they are free to make up their own minds. He still happily talks himself up, and luckily our paths don’t cross that often. We’re never going to be best of friends and I think we both like it that way.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ said Ryan. ‘You seem to get on so well with everyone else.’

  Tristram smiled. ‘Everyone should have a nemesis. Do you?’

  Ryan scratched his tin head and thought for a moment.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Really? You mean there isn’t someone at school who’s taunted and teased you from day one. Or someone who always seems to do better than you at everything?’

  ‘Well there’s Harry Hopkins, but he just picks on everyone, so I don’t think I’m particularly special. Do I really need one?’

  ‘I just find a bit of rivalry always helps to bring out the best in me,’ said Tristram. ‘It helps me to push myself. And we should always be looking to do that, no matter how old or experienced we are. If anyone ever tells you they are too old to learn something new, whatever it may be, then they are a fool. It’s never too late to learn.’

  ‘Yes master,’ said Ryan in a husky voice. He placed his palms together in front of him and bowed from the waist.

  ‘You sarcastic little git,’ said Tristram, laughing loudly. ‘You know, it’s nice to meet someone like you Ryan; someone who doesn’t take things too seriously. You will certainly meet a few characters here, some of whom will seem a bit stuck up and self-important. By all means learn from this place, but don’t let it change you the way it has them.’

  ‘Yes master,’ said Ryan again, repeating the action.

  ‘All right, all right, I get the message. No more lectures, I promise.’

  They chatted a while longer about their respective school experiences and eventually Ryan found Tristram harder and harder to focus on. He rubbed his eyes but, before he knew it, another night had passed and the real world beckoned.

  14

  Ryan
awoke to only a mildly angry tummy that morning, having performed only a solitary ‘weave that night. It came as quite a welcome relief after what had been a rather difficult Friday. He lay flat on his back as raindrops pelted the skylight above him. The alarm clock on the cabinet next to him declared that it was a little after ten thirty, though the lack of light coming through his windows nearly fooled him into thinking it was not yet dawn. It was okay; he had a while until he was due to meet up with his mates. There was no doubt that his mum would let him hang out with them after last night.

  Dear God, his mum; what sort state would she be in when she woke up? He lay there for a while feeling smugly satisfied that his efforts the previous night would pay off and expecting any minute for breakfast in bed to arrive.

  When eleven thirty came and went without any sign of her Ryan began to get annoyed. He eventually got up and stomped out of his room to find out what she was playing at. Arriving on the landing, he found the door to her room steadfastly shut.

  ‘Oh for crying out loud,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘And you call me lazy.’

  Ryan had never experienced a hangover, but he was sure that it couldn’t be that bad. Resigned to the fact that breakfast was going to be what he made of it, he headed downstairs and began to work on the mother of all fry-ups.

  The smell of his cooking seemed to do the trick, for just as he had sat down to a triple egg butty with bacon, sausages and onions, his mum appeared at the kitchen door. She was accompanied by a full helping of bed hair and a dressing gown showing off slightly more than Ryan would have liked.

  ‘Oh baby, you did breakfast!’ she said with a weak smile, heading over and planting