“I don't know,” said Lilac. “It’s just the way it works. He talks, we hear. We talk, he hears. It’s as simple as that.”
“Oh right,” said the boy, accepting the lady’s non-explanation as the best he was likely to get when it came to the mechanics of the thing. “So why doesn’t he come over, then?”
“But he is here,” responded Lilac. “It’s just that he has the unusual property of always being distant. It’s impossible, in fact, to meet him up close. Hence the name: ‘Mickey Dim’. It’s how he was born.”
At which the figure interjected:
“A point of order, please, dear heart,
Talk free of me, yes, but keep me a part.”
“Sorry,” returned Lilac. Then, leaning conspiratorially towards Benjamin, she whispered: “I don't think that was a joke, by the way. You know, the line about him being ‘a part’. He’s fairly sensitive in that respect. I recommend we don’t make an issue of it.”
The boy paused for a moment, musing, as a slight, wicked smile began to play on his lips. “Does he always talk in rhymes?” he eventually asked, all innocence.
“Oh yes.”
“Why?”
Lilac shrugged. “Because he likes to, I suppose.”
Benjamin brought his attention back to the figure on the helter-skelter staircase. “Hey, uh, Mickey,” he said, successfully defeating the urge to shout. “Haven’t seen any oranges about, have you?”
But Mickey Dim was sharp in answering, as if used to being so challenged:
“Orange fruit from earthly shores,
Are not conducive to good discourse,
And though I must congratulate thee,
For this fine attempt at repartee,
Indulge me a moment, while I ask you this:
Are you not a tad young to be taking the -”
“Thank you, Mickey!” interrupted Lilac. Unfortunately, the delirious grin on the boy’s face informed her that her attempt at protecting his sensitive young ears from Mickey Dim’s decidedly robust response had been significantly less than successful.
***
They didn’t talk with Mickey Dim for long. In his roundabout way, he informed them that he had business to be getting on with, and couldn’t really dally. He also let it be known that notice of Benjamin’s fame was travelling fast, and that it had already reached certain bodies of self-proclaimed authority. Lilac’s nose wrinkled at this; the word ‘authority’ had much the same affect on her as a bad smell, and when Mickey Dim explained who these authorities actually were, the look on the lady’s face evolved into that of someone getting a taste of the very thing that smelled so bad.
“The Proactive Burghmeisters of the Progressive Slant,” she spat, “Are a bunch of silly old fools who think they know better than everyone else simply because no-one can make a square waffle of what it is they’re going on about. The so-called Considerate League are bureau-prats who refuse to understand that something can exist quite happily without paperwork to back it up. Hand them a stone, and they’ll argue to the death that stones aren’t real because a clear definition of what constitutes a stone isn’t available on dossier. And the only reason why so many people like the Highwicker Collectivists is because they’re all so insane, nobody thinks they can do any real harm!”
But the lady’s furious disdain was wasted on Mickey Dim; he was merely the messenger, and the message was that these ‘authorities’ already knew about the dreamshader staying with her, and were likely to visit. “Well, they won’t find us here,” she said sulkily, as Mickey Dim faded away with a wave of goodbye. Then, after reflecting for a moment, she sighed. “But they’ll get to us eventually, as politicians always do. You just can’t escape them. Damn that Ichabod Dome - may he move ahead and leave his hair behind! If he’d have kept quiet, I might’ve ... well, okay, I’m not sure what I’d have done, but I wouldn’t have - right, fine, okay, so the powers-at-wannabe would have found out eventually, I can admit that, but -”
She stopped. “Why am I arguing with myself?” she said.
“I have absolutely no idea,” said Benjamin.
“Good enough. I need tea. I crave tea. And I need some more biscuits. How about you?”
It sounded like a good idea. But with no tea available and the last of the biscuits gone, it meant that they’d either have to find something else to eat, or go to the shops. Lilac opted for the latter - but with one condition:
“You,” she said to Benjamin, “can stay here and make some snores. As much as I’d love to introduce you to the gentlemen bakers of Azadeurs, or even to Yin-Yin Makato’s fine clientele, I think you need the rest more. Soon - very soon - people are going to want to see what you can do. I’d suggest you take a nap.”
She went back over to the tatty old armchair that Benjamin had found so comfortable, and pulled the coffee table towards it. “You can put your feet up here,” she said, indicating the coffee table. “Enjoy some peace and quiet for a while, yes?”
Benjamin complied. As much as he would’ve liked to encounter the type of atulphi that operated under such exotica as ‘Azadeurs’ or ‘Yin-Yin Makato’, Lilac’s suggestion was immediately more appealing. He was worn-out, no doubt about it; gravity had become a curse, his eyes felt fat and sore, and his whole head seemed to ache with the labour of bearing a face. Also, if what Lilac had said to him concerning his powers as a dreamshader was correct - that deploying this ‘talent’ would leave him exhausted - then it was absolutely essential that he get some rest right now, lest he end up looking a complete fraud when the time came to prove his ability. True, he had little idea of what he would actually have to do to prove it, though mere common sense told him that being tired to the point of collapse was not going to be a big help.
“One thing,” Lilac said, as she fished what sounded like coins from a box on a shelf. “Try to leave the silf alone, okay?” She nodded at the satchel on the floor. “Good as you are, there’s still a chance that it could escape or get lured away, especially if you nod off in the meantime. In all other respects, though, feel free to treat this place as an extremely plush hotel that charges its clients of they break anything. Alright?”
“Alright,” murmured Benjamin, as he sank back into the chair, yawned deeply, and began to entertain himself with all the soothing sights that came when his eyes were closed.
12
But sleep didn’t arrive as easily as he thought it should. Several times, when he felt sure of drifting off, he found himself suddenly restless, and he’d have to fidget for a while before he could get settled again. At best, he probably managed a doze or two, but he couldn’t be certain; the problem with sleep was that if there wasn’t a clock to look at (as with television, Lilac’s abode appeared void of the devices) you never really knew if you had been asleep or not. Sometimes, a dreamless night might pass in a single blink. It had happened to him before. Conversely, he was also aware that one can become so overtired that the very idea of slumber itself seems like an impossible dream.
Unless it was the very fact of his being in Niamago that was keeping him awake. Perhaps he was still so astonished at finding himself here that he didn’t dare fall asleep in case he missed something he’d regret not seeing. Or maybe the real cause of his unrest was that buzz in the background: accustomed as he had become, it still seemed just a little too conspicuous when there was nothing but quietness otherwise. Or perhaps it was because of the thoughts he kept getting about his mum, and how he couldn’t stop himself from seeing her at the kitchen table, silent and tear-streaked as she prepared another family meal without him there (or staring blankly at the telephone, her face severe, her hands knotted tightly together). Maybe it was all of those things. Or some. Or none. In any case, he knew that he was not going to get much rest by dwelling upon it all. Then again, what else could he do when he was exhausted, yet unable to sleep?
With a sigh that was part frustration and part resignation, he swung his feet away from the coffee table and planted them on the
floor. Perhaps he had been asleep: stiff as they were, his legs definitely didn’t feel as leaden as they had when he’d first taken to the chair. He stood up, stretched, and decided that while he had at least a modicum of energy, he might as well try and find something to take his mind off things. It was better than just lying there and getting irritated, at any rate.
He looked around the room, and again saw the radio. Though he was curious to know what kind of broadcasts passed for the norm here, he didn’t think it would be right to switch it on without Lilac’s permission. He idled over to it anyway, if only to see if it held any similarities to those back home. Finding out that it did - superficially, at least - was enough. There was a tuning dial, an indication of the frequencies available (though he didn’t know if they corresponded with those of earth or not), and what he reckoned was either an on-off switch or bandwidth selector. He had a good sniff, and discerned a waxy, plasticky odour about the thing, not unlike scorched Bakelite. Strangely enough, the smell seemed fitting, given the apparent antiquity of the device. It suggested that something inside was close to burning out, through age and overuse. It probably meant that it was faulty too, and therefore best left untouched.
After that, he went to the large bookcase that had caught his attention earlier. Surprisingly, he discovered nothing even remotely interesting there. Most of the spines on display had Chinese writing on them, or some other language. What few there were in English - The Gardens of Bonbon O’Hoy or Charlotte Efferby’s Effortless Companion, for example - appeared so inane as to barely merit even a cursory glance. He tried taking one of the foreign books out, simply to see if it contained anything more worthwhile inside, but found that it was wedged so firmly between the others that it wouldn’t budge. He tried another, but again the book was packed-in too tightly to be of any use. He didn’t bother trying any of the rest; by then, what little enthusiasm he’d had was already well on the wane. He took himself off to the window instead, where he could watch Niamago go by while waiting for something to do.
The fresh air helped; the window was slightly open, being the same one that he and Lilac had stood at while conversing with Mickey Dim. And although Mickey Dim was already long gone, the boy still found his gaze drawn to the spot where that strange atulphi had held court. He tried working out how Mickey Dim could maintain his distance if, say, he was met in an enclosed space without exits, or what would have happened had someone come up those spiral stairs and bumped into him. Would he sort of ‘ping away’ to somewhere else? What if he was caught in a crowd? And if, as Lilac had said, it really was impossible to meet him up close, then how was he supposed to buy things at shops? Did the shopkeeper throw the goods at him while Mickey Dim threw money back? It seemed very unlikely. Maybe the lady had simply been indulging in a wind-up. Considering the toilet episode, it wasn’t as if she was exactly averse to the pastime...
But then again, this was Niamago, wasn’t it? Where surprises waited at every corner, and magic was as mundane as September rain. Looking out over the city, and seeing those conceits made real - the towers of eras past and unknown, the iridescent skyscape, the glowing atulphi that streaked by on a balloon-driven sledge, and those who made a carnival of the streets below simply by being there - he understood how unlikely it was that the word ‘unlikely’ could be of much use here. Which meant, of course, that what Lilac had told him about Mickey Dim could very well be true. It also meant that it was virtually impossible to determine if anything she said was a leg-pull or not - and he suspected that she was all to aware of the fact. Mischievous as the lady might be, however, she certainly wasn’t mean. More jests would come, undoubtedly; but as long as they were light-hearted, and free of spite, then there should be no reason to make an issue of it.
Hopefully.
And then, just as he was deliberating upon what he could think about next, something caught his eye. It was to his right, resting on the outside edge of the window frame, and upon seeing it in full, his first instinct was to recoil. Only when he looked again, and saw that what he’d initially taken as a very large wasp was actually something much more freakish, did he draw a little closer to the thing - though not too close, obviously.
Yes, it was a wasp. But unlike the wasps he was used to, it was much bigger, and had one striking physical difference that was as repulsive as it was compelling: in the place where a normal, home-grown wasp would normally have a striped sting-bearing tail there was instead a fat, distended appendage that looked, for all the world, like a spinning-top. In relation to the rest of the body, it seemed huge; and whereas the head and thorax of the wasp bore the usual two-tone pattern typical of the species (except that it was an arrangement of black and orange, rather than the usual black and yellow), this spinning-top thing underneath was banded, the colours alternating between a mushroomy white and a fierce, cinnamon red. It was an intimidating beast, in all; the boy didn’t know if it would be wiser to close the window now - and thereby risk antagonising the creature - or leave it until the thing decided to fly away. The latter may very well have been the safer option, but it meant that the creature could also fly inside if it so chose, and Benjamin was not inclined to let that happen. So without pondering upon it any further - and without taking his eyes off the insect, either - he shot out an arm and pulled the errant pane to a close. He was glad he did so; at the snap of the latch, the wasp arched itself, and something jutted out from the rear of that bulbous abdomen: a sting, perhaps a centimetre long, with slight yet regular striations along its length that were disturbingly suggestive of a drill-bit. The creature then took off, but it did not depart. Instead, it hovered outside the window, its wing beats emitting a faint drone that the boy, his skin crawling, recognised as the same as that which he’d heard when leaving the pier.
But as abhorrent as the thing was, Benjamin had to concede that it did not appear hostile. Not overtly so, anyway. If anything, the creature appeared to be more curious than wary; there was a spooky deliberation to its movements, the sense of some determined appraisal of what lay beyond the glass. Then, just as the scrutiny of the thing was about to become unsettling, it was gone. It launched itself away from the window and sailed far and up into the sky. Benjamin had only a moment to notice a flash of sparkling sunlight on its wings before it was lost completely to sight; and in that very second he heard a loud crack which could have been anything from a misfiring vehicle to an unwonted firecracker. All thoughts of the wasp suddenly forgotten, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the emberquick.
He didn’t know what had caused the noise. Nor did he much care. All he knew was that it had occurred at precisely the same instant as when he’d seen that play of light upon the insect, and that it had made him think of fireworks. Abruptly, he recalled what had happened when he’d held his emberquick aloft at the Macallory Lane Market. And finally, he understood what had really occurred there. This time, he would not let it go.
But the emberquick was silent. Its beguiling music had vanished. And when he brought it to his eyes, he saw that it was no longer glowing. Despairing, he studied the crystal as closely as he could, turning it, pressing it and rolling it in his palm like a half-blind jeweller (and had his concentration not been so fraught, he might well have taken greater regard of the sheen that was apparent when the stone was unlit). Then he remembered how Lilac had first made the object glow: she’d merely flicked it with her finger. Hardly daring to believe that it could be so simple, he drew a deep breath and did the same - at which both the light and that wondrous, resonating chime sprang back into life.
Now all he needed to do was think of that first great dream - the flares, the gulfs, his mastery of the show, his frailty in the face of that unending sky - and see where it led to.
***
When Lilac returned, she was met with a Benjamin that she had not expected. The boy was fizzing, all chatter and exuberance, and she had barely closed the door before he was exhorting her to join him at the window, so that he might demonstrate this marvell
ous something that he had discovered while she was out. She wondered briefly if he’d stolen into the kitchen and tried some of the Tintifferbing powder that she kept for special occasions, but a surreptitious check of the cupboards (which she made whilst depositing her wares in the pantry) soon disproved that idea. Eager, then, to find out what it was that had caused this sudden, effusive change in the child, she bid him cease with the babble, and start at the beginning.
Benjamin showed her the emberquick. “Ok,” he said breathlessly. “You remember what happened at the market, when I said there was music coming from this thing?”
Lilac thought back. “Uh-huh.”
The boy grinned. “I’ve worked out what it means.”
“Really.”
The boy nodded. “It’s all to do with my dream. The one about the fireworks and that. I told you about it in the cage, remember?”
Lilac paused. “Oh yes,” she said. “The great dream.”
“Yeah, that one. Now, I’ve found out that when I hold this -” he held the emberquick up, in front of the window “- and think about that dream, I get this feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“The music,” he said, looking fixedly at the crystal. “It’s kind of - it’s like the music changes when I think about the dream. It’s doing it now. But not just that...”
“No?”
“No. The music, the noise - whatever it is - it’s calling to me.”
“Calling,” The lady repeated, clearly intrigued.
“Yes. But it depends on the direction. You see, when I hold this thing here -” he turned, bringing the emberquick round with him, and locked his gaze to the wall at the other side of the room “- the feeling becomes faint and the music gets weird.”
“Okay,” said Lilac, drawing out the ‘O’ at the beginning of the word, as though troubled by some vestige of scepticism.