Dreamshade

  22

  Strifer did not take him far. “I gotta conserve everything I can,” he’d said, during their descent. “I’ll land you, but can’t afford to take you to your door. Is that okay?”

  Benjamin told him that it was. As a result, they touched down without going any further, at a place almost directly below the area where, the boy guessed, they must have emerged into the earthly sky: the disused railway that lay between Gerald Street and Tavistock Road. It wasn’t as close to his home as he would have liked, but it was certainly within good walking distance. Provided his legs held up (and right now, he wasn’t entirely sure they would) he was likely, once the farewells were done with, to be back at his house within twenty minutes.

  It was odd, to feel so elated after such terrors; when he stepped off the saucer, and onto the weedy, overgrown grass, he thought he might be sick. Sheer bloody relief, it seemed, was not always what it was cracked up to be. All the same, it was welcome, dizzying and nauseating though it was. Very, very welcome indeed.

  He retched once, and that was it. Then he turned, and prepared himself for another goodbye, this time with Strifer. The atulphi was still on his saucer, standing unsteadily at the gap between the railings, his hands gripped to the small posts either side. He did not look healthy, and appeared to totter as he kicked the last few lifeless wasps away from the deck. Instinctively, Benjamin stepped back when the remains tumbled to the grass, but was soon reassured. “He’s gone,” said Strifer, bringing the back of a hand to his mouth as he coughed. “It’s gone, I mean. Couldn’t survive the translation. One part of him here, another part of him there.” The atulphi cackled. “Cut him right in two. Destroyed his cohesion. Killed it outright.” He gave a snigger which mutated into a raspy wheeze. “Hope it was painful.”

  Benjamin nodded. “Are you okay?” he asked, as the atulphi issued another hacking, gravelly cough.

  “No,” said Strifer. He held out his arm, displaying the grey gashes. There was little light about, but enough to reveal that the tattoos had transformed into bruise-like clouds around the wounds. “My tats can patch me up pretty good,” the atulphi continued. “But Vespinner got too much venom in me. I won’t last ... much longer.”

  Benjamin abruptly lifted his left his left hand, remembering that the wrist below had been pierced. There was some pain there, and a small blob of blood. “Venom?” he asked, walking closer to Strifer. Again he felt sick, and not with relief. “Does that mean I -”

  With a speed that belied his condition, Strifer snatched hold of the boy’s hand, turning it over so that he could see the wrist. “Ah, that’s nothing,” he said, offering a smile and a wince at the same time. “Enough, I guess, to make you feel ill for a day or two, but nothing to cry over.”

  Benjamin tried to pull his hand back, but Strifer didn’t let go. “Just wait awhile,” the atulphi said, gripping tightly. The boy felt a tingling at the wrist, and when he looked he found that some of Strifer’s tattoos were at work on his flesh too, right at the point where the creature had stung him. “Vespinner didn’t count on this, y’see,” Strifer continued, watching as the tattoos, like little clouds, busied themselves with his friend’s skin. “Figured I’d be out for a lot longer.” Again, he laughed. “Didn’t stop to think ... what I could really do. Didn’t stop to think what Millicent could do, either.” Another laugh, but strained now; he wiped his mouth with his fingers. “Took us through on auto, at exactly the right time. Caught the stink unawares, just when it thought it had won. Ha!”

  The tattoos were soon finished, leaving in a rush of itches as they coursed away from Benjamin’s wrist and returned to Strifer’s hand, then his arm. The boy scratched at the place, wiping the jewel-drop of blood away, and stared, squinting, at where he thought he had been stung. There was nothing, only skin. Intact and unbroken.

  “Hurts?” asked Strifer.

  “No,” said the boy, bewildered. Despite all the magic he’d already seen, he had not expected this. The pain, as well as the mark, was completely gone. “How did you -” he began, before realising that there was no explanation needed. Strifer’s tattoos healed, and if their bearer wished them to heal someone else, then that was that. “Thank you,” he said instead, returning his gaze to the atulphi, and the grey wounds on his arms. There were fewer now, he saw, but many still remained. There was no blood, only thin streams of luminous vapour which rose up from them like cigarette smoke. Unless, of course, this was the way in which a creature such as Strifer did bleed: in mists, rather than rivulets.

  “Did he get you anywhere else?” asked the atulphi, still holding out the shaky hand from which Benjamin’s cure had come.

  “Don't think so,” said the boy, bringing his fingertips to his neck and then his eyebrows. “No, I’m alright. I’m fine.”

  “Good,” said Strifer, letting the hand drop. He turned round a little to look at the control console. “I gotta be going soon. Got a lot of news to pass on.” He wheezed. “Don't have much time, either.”

  “Are you going to die?”

  “Yeah,” said the atulphi, without the slightest hint of defeat or distress. “Probably. But it won’t stop me from telling them what I know.” He turned back to Benjamin, giving a wide, toothsome, razor-lipped grin. “Vespinner thought I was out, but I heard it all. What he said about Gogmagog, the war, and what happened to all those other ... dreamshaders.” He coughed, and stared down for a second. “Wouldn’t have let you get hurt, though. You know that, don't you.”

  “Yes,” said Benjamin weakly. A peculiar, empty sadness welled up inside him; he didn’t want the adventure to end like this, in death and despair. “Maybe you’ll -” he said, groping for assurances. “Maybe you’ll be okay too. You might find someone to -”

  “Maybe,” said Strifer, holding up a hand. “Whatever. As long as I have the time to tell enough people what happened, I’ll be fine. Now I need to ask you -” he paused, adding gravity to the question that followed “- did Vespinner say, or do anything which you think I ought to know about? Doesn’t matter how small it might seem. Just tell me.”

  It came to Benjamin in a flash; no consideration was needed. “He said my name.”

  “Your name? When?”

  “He was talking about these other dreamshaders. These ones that had -”

  “Gone over to Gogmagog’s side.”

  “Yeah. And then he said my name - Crosskeys - as well.”

  “Crosskeys,” muttered Strifer, turning the name over in much the same way as Vespinner had done. “Yeah ... I remember you saying something about that. Didn’t catch the name itself, though. You sure you didn’t mishear?”

  “I dunno,” said Benjamin. Vespinner’s voice had been so unearthly, there was every chance that he had misheard. But he couldn’t be certain. “My dad’s the only other person I know who had my name. And he’s ... well, he’s not around now.”

  Strifer nodded, and stifled another cough. “You’re the only Crosskeys I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “If there was another ... I’m sure I’d have known.”

  “So you don’t think -”

  “Who knows. But my guess is that Vespinner was jerking you around. Seems like the kind of thing he’d do.”

  “But how could he have known my name? I didn’t tell him.”

  The atulphi shrugged. “He was a spy. An’ he said he’d been watching you. I figure he picked it up, and decided to torment you with it. As I said, it’s the sorta thing he’d do.”

  Benjamin wasn’t convinced, but neither was he of a mind or mood to pursue it. He was tired, he was sad, and he wanted to go home. “Guess so,” he said, and left it at that.

  “I’ll let Lilac know, anyway,” said Strifer, as he limped over to the control console and set his machine into motion. Slowly, it began to lift. “In the meantime - take care.” The atulphi held up a hand. “Have a good life or somethin’, yeah?”

  Benjamin waved, smiled, but offered no reply. He could have said his ‘goodbye’, of course, yet he did not
; Strifer, rising, was doomed, and though he was only almost sure of it - as he did not dare himself to think that this brave and astonishing atulphi’s fate was certain - he was sure enough to sense that the farewell would add a finality to the scene that he was not prepared to accept. He wanted Strifer to live; he wished that Strifer would live. But to present that wish in words felt wrong, somehow, so he did not say it. Instead, he continued waving, smiling, and offering no reply, until Strifer and his craft (and God, how he regretted sniggering over the name bestowed upon it) were but a dim light in the sky, which faded out like a star at morningtime. For a while afterwards, Benjamin stood there, staring up and rubbing at the wrist which the atulphi had so eloquently remedied. And when he was done with rubbing the wrist he reached into his pocket to retrieve the gourd. He looked at it for a moment, smiled again, and put it back. He took one last, searching look at the night sky, gave a wave that seemed closer to a salute, and then he turned, to take up the journey that would lead him back to Chapterhouse Street.

  He did not hurry; there were a few lifeless wasps to tread upon first. Yet the noise and feel of them as they popped under his slipper did not seem as satisfying as he thought it should. Not only that, but many of the bodies were issuing wisps of silvery smoke similar to those he had seen emanating from Strifer, and they appeared to be dissolving, too, though that could have been a trick of both the murky light and unkempt surroundings. Still, they were dead, and that was what was most important. Strifer had given his life - probably - to see that this monster was defeated, and there was perhaps no other means for the boy to repay that profound debt but by doing what the atulphi would have wanted him to do. And that was to simply go back home, and not linger on the way.

  ***

  It was his town, his world, his home - but something was different. He passed a local pub, The Cricketers, and though it looked the same, smelt the same, and sounded the same, something was awry. And he didn’t know what it was. He peered through the windows as he passed, seeing a counter racked with drinkers, glasses clinking amid the raucous chat, and found nothing to suggest as to why this sense of deadness should prevail. True, a world such as this would indeed seem lifeless after the one he’d just visited - but somehow, he did not feel that this explained it. He passed the houses on Tavistock Road, and passed the laundrette on the corner of Denham Street. Everything was as expected. He passed cars both still and speeding, and passers-by who, bemused though they were by the sight of this boy wandering the streets in his pyjamas and dressing gown, behaved exactly as ordinary passers-by should. They stared only an instant longer than was necessary, then quickly averted their eyes, as if there was something vaguely shameful in noticing someone dressed in the wrong clothes. Admittedly, he didn’t recognise anyone out here, but that was not unusual. And he didn’t recognise what it was that was so unusual until, as per his normal habit, he brushed the fingers of his right hand against the barred fence of the old waterworks on Gables Lane.

  Of course, he thought, when the answer came to him. In Niamago, everything he touched (with one exception, though he couldn’t remember what it was) had given him a strange sensation of being more than what it was supposed to be; the residuals, Lilac had said, of the dreams from which all these things had been forged. He’d become so accustomed to the effect that, in the end, he had no longer noticed it. But now he was in a world built not of dreams but bricks, mortar and steel. And here nothing resonated to his touch; it was all silent, all sober, and almost livid with lifelessness.

  Whatever small consolation he had gained from having solved this mystery - and it was a very small consolation - was soon dashed by the surge of panic he felt at the idea that his gourd might now be similarly affected. It didn’t matter that he’d already tested the item, shortly after Strifer’s departure, and found it to be fine; he needed the certainty that it was still alright, that it had not been tainted by the dullness of its present realm. So again, he reached into his pocket ... and again that first great dream breached the forefront of his mind. He sighed, relieved, and let go of the gourd. Everything was fine. Everything was as it should be.

  ***

  Finally, then, he turned the necessary corner, and found himself in Chapterhouse Street. And here, everything was not as it should be, as there was a police car parked outside his house. Trembling, he pushed past the front gate, listening out for the creak it normally gave, and went to the front door and rang the bell. After a second or two, it was answered by his mum. Her face was a wasteland of spent cries, her eyes red-rimmed, her mouth pallid and tight. At first, she didn’t appear to believe what she was seeing. “Benjy?” she said, as if supplying a tentative answer to a question she wasn’t sure of. “Benjy?” she said again, blinking back the tears. Then she swept him into her arms, and began a call of “Oh my BUH! Oh my BUH!” It was like she was trying to say ‘boy’ or ‘baby’, but couldn’t manage it for sobs. She pulled him inside, into the living room, where an ashen Pete stood up as soon as he saw them, along with a policeman, a policewoman, and another woman with a folder under her arm. “He’s back,” his mother shouted, in triumph, relief, grief, and joy. “My boy is back,” she said, hugging him tight and bestowing kiss after kiss upon his head. The policeman said something; the woman with the folder said something. But Benjamin didn’t hear them. He was lost to the embrace of his mum, and her tears were becoming contagious. “I’m okay, mum,” he said. “I’m okay.”

  And he was; it was wonderful to be back with her. Niamago, Lilac, heaven and hell - they meant nothing now, now that he was home. His mother was everything, everywhere; and she smelled, he noticed ...

  ... of something warm, and very nice.

  23

  Naturally, she wanted an explanation. They all did: Pete, the policeman, the policewoman, and the lady with the folder under her arm. The only one who did not meet him with a call of ‘where have you been?’ or ‘what happened to you?’ was his sister, Maddie. She merely emerged from somewhere, hugged him, and then went off somewhere else. As for his reply ... well, what else could he do but tell the truth? Or, at least, something approximating the truth, but entirely more believable.

  So he told them that it was all a dream. At such short notice, it was the best he could come up with. He told them that he dreamed of chasing a silver ribbon out into the dark, and of meeting a strange and marvellous lady who travelled in a cage held high by birds; he told them that he’d dreamed of being carried away to a magical city, and had then returned by means of a flying saucer. He did not tell them about Vespinner, or the clown; they were unnecessary embellishments, and ones he didn’t want to talk about. By the time he reached the end of his tale, and spoke of how he’d woken up, terrified, in the disused railway, it was clear to all concerned that he could very well be recounting the phantasmagoria of a sleepwalk. The obvious flaw with this, of course, was the fact that a sleepwalk was not liable to continue throughout the day. But once he’d recognised it, the story was finished. As expected, it was his mother who was the first to pick up on the unlikeliness of his account.

  She was sitting next to him, close and warm, and had an arm around his shoulders. “You sleepwalked outside? And all day?” she asked, drawing him a little nearer to herself. “Is that really what happened?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I guess so.” It was either that or the absolute truth, and as he’d already surmised, the absolute truth was about as believable as a fairy tale. He didn’t like fibbing to his mother, especially when she had suffered so, but what choice did he have? He’d gone to a place that adults do not understand, and they would not accept his tale unless it was garnished with lies. It was sad, but it was so; his adventure wouldn’t ever be shared with those who cared for him.

  Thinking about it caused tears to well up in his eyes, but he quickly rubbed them away. His mother, again, hugged him tightly.

  Then the policeman spoke. He was large and stocky, and bore a greying moustache. “Did you meet someone out there?” he asked. Hi
s voice was friendly enough, but his small eyes seemed as hard as flint. “I mean, was there anyone else?”

  “No,” said Benjamin. He heard - and felt - his mother release a pent-up sigh.

  The policeman nodded and looked down awhile, at which the woman with the folder under her arm ventured a question: “How are things at school?” she said.

  “Fine,” said Benjamin.

  The woman nodded, smiling sweetly. “Plenty of friends?”

  “Yeah. A few.”

  “What about enemies; kids that don't like you.”

  “Um,” he said, considering the query. Until now, school had been a million miles away from his mind. “There’s Tim Staples. He keeps giving me a dead arm. But he does it to everyone.”

  The woman took hold of her folder and looked at the back of it. “Does he ever make you feel like you’d rather be at home than at school?”

  “No,” said Benjamin. “Not really.”

  The woman nodded again, and took a pen from inside her jacket. “So generally, you prefer school to home, yes?” she said, as she began to scribble something on the back of the folder.

  “No. I prefer being at home.”

  The woman’s smile became broader. “And why’s that?”

  “I dunno,” said Benjamin. “I just do.”

  The woman dashed her pen across the back of the folder, as if she were either underlining something or crossing it out. Apparently satisfied, she clicked the pen once, returned it to a place inside her jacket, and brought her folder back to its nest in the crook of her arm. “Good,” she said, grinning now. “I’m pleased to hear that, Benjamin.”

  His mother asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. He replied that he did. “I’ll get it,” said Pete, rising from his chair. Some colour had come back to his face, though there was still a visible tremble in his hands. Before going out into the kitchen he asked if anyone else wanted a cup, and received a chorus of yesses in return.

  While he was away, the policewoman asked the boy if it had all been a prank. “I mean, it’s all right if it was,” she said, in a slightly northern accent. “I don't think anyone’s going to be upset with you. Not now, anyway. So you can tell us, if that’s what happened.”