That was that, then: Maddie wasn’t a dreamshader. If she’d sensed what Benjamin always sensed whenever his touch was upon the gourd, then she would undoubtedly have told him. Nevertheless, she could still see it quite easily, which was something: Maddie might not be of the dreamshade, but she was young enough to be aware of the artefact in a way that her parents were not. It helped, too, to know that he was not the only one who could see it. Somehow, it made the gourd - and, by extension, his whole Niamagonian adventure - seem more real; more solid. But then again, it made the dark side - Vespinner, the clown, Strifer’s fate - seem equally as real and solid too. Confused as to whether he should feel joyful or uneasy, he made to leave. Realising, however, that there was more he needed to ask, he crouched back down beside her.
“Maddie,” he said. “Do you remember the dream you had last - no, it was the night before. A dream about cats.”
His sister’s face brightened immediately. “Yeah. I had cats all over my room,” she said, completely unfazed by the fact that her brother should know what she had been dreaming about.
“And they were talking, weren’t they.”
“Yeah. But I dint know what they said.”
Benjamin waited for his sister to continue.
“They were bad cats.” She frowned a little. “They dint listen to me.”
Benjamin waited a little while longer, gathering his thoughts. “Do you remember anything happening yesterday? It was around -” he tried to recall when, exactly, he had transfigured Maddie’s silf “- well, it was in the afternoon. After lunch.”
“Mum was crying.” She looked hard at her brother for a second. “She was crying all day.”
“Yeah, I know.” Another pause. “But was there anything else you remember? Anything strange?”
Maddie shook her head and turned her attentions back to the mud pie. “You went away and everyone got sad. I was scared. After I wenna bed I woke up and -”
But she was cut short by her mother, calling out from the back door to let Benjamin know that it was time to get ready to go and see the doctor. “Okay mum,” the boy replied, leaving Maddie to burble to herself as she began to garnish her pie with weeds. As usual, he made no attempt to hide the gourd from his mother; he even went so far as to bounce it in his hand as he walked past her. Like yesterday, she made no remark about it, nor showed any clue that she had actually seen the thing. It was almost as if it was invisible to her.
***
Doctor Mahmoud’s examination was a little more thorough than that of the police doctor - it involved, amongst other things, an extensive check of the upper arms and a lot of questions about feeling sick or dizzy - but he came to the same conclusion: the boy had a slight temperature, was liable to feel quite ill in the next few days, but was generally fine. “See what tomorrow brings,” he said. “And keep him off school for a week or so.” There was, he reiterated on behalf of the police doctor, absolutely nothing to worry about.
As they walked back home, Benjamin’s mother asked him something that caught him completely off-guard. “What’s up with your wrist?” she said.
“Eh?” he replied, immediately bringing up his hand to look at the place where Vespinner had stung him. “Nothing. Why?”
“You seem to be rubbing it a lot.”
He hadn’t noticed.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” he said, letting his arm flop nonchalantly back down to his side. “It’s alright.”
“But you knew which one I was talking about, didn’t you.”
She had him on that one. “Yeah,” he said, extending every effort to make it appear that the topic was irrelevant to him. “It itches a bit. That’s all.”
“Let me have a look,” she said, halting so that she could lean down and take hold of his hand. “Hm,” she murmured, scrutinising both his palm and the unmarred wrist below. She turned the hand over to look at the back of it. “Seems alright.” She let the hand go. “Not red or anything. Maybe something bit you out there, when - well, you know. During your sleepwalk.”
“Could be,” said Benjamin, as they resumed their journey. “But it feels okay.”
“I’m sure,” she said, a touch of brusqueness in her tone. She did not say anything after that, but the silence spoke volumes. It was a silence that said she didn’t quite believe the doctors; a silence that said she did not quite believe her son, either, when he told her that everything was fine, that he’d simply had a weird dream and woken up on the old railway line. Benjamin knew this - but, like his mother, there was nothing he could say about it, and nothing he could do.
He felt sad, all of a sudden. He coughed; the air was cold. His mother ruffled his hair and gave him a quick, fleeting smile. It was strange; he’d always wanted an amazing secret, something astonishing that he and only he knew about, like being a superhero or secret agent. And yet, now that he had that very thing, it didn’t feel so great. His mother would probably never see the things he’d seen; never voyage as far as he had gone. Dreams, to her, had no more impact on her life than a missing penny. It struck him as a terrible shame, but he dared not cry (even though he wanted to) for fear that she might ask him, outright, what it was he really wanted to tell her.
***
“Now that’s interesting,” said Pete, without looking up from the newspaper. It was evening, just after dinner, and Benjamin’s mother was upstairs helping Maddie tidy her room. From the sound of it, his sister was being difficult, and before Pete had spoken he had heard his mother ask, exasperated, why she would want so many toys kept under the bed. He didn’t catch the reply; by then, his stepfather was already talking.
Pete was sitting on the sofa opposite Benjamin, his paper - the local, to judge by the masthead - held nearly upright by the crook of his leg. “Couple of people saw a UFO last night. Round about the same time as when you were out, by the look of it.”
“Really?” said Benjamin. Inevitably, his thoughts went to Strifer and his remarkable craft - Millicent.
“Yup.” Pete flicked the page. “Coloured lights. There were a few calls to the police station. Busy night for them, eh?”
“Yeah,” said Benjamin, giving a sort of half-snort because he didn’t know if he should be amused or not.
“Daffy old ladies, probably.” He turned the page. “Did you see anything?”
“No,” replied Benjamin.
From the way the top of Pete’s head was bobbing above the paper, it was clear he was nodding. “Ah well. Such and such, eh?”
It was one of those remarks Pete used when he didn’t really know what to say. And he used them often. “Yeah,” said Benjamin, giving the best response he could think of.
There was quietness between them for a while; the telly droned on in the background, as did Maddie’s protestations that she wanted her toys kept under her bed. Then Pete lowered his paper and said, “you know, if there’s anything you don't think you can talk with your mum about, you can always tell me. I mean, if there’s things like girls and stuff -”
“I know,” said Benjamin, feeling his cheeks prickle.
“Yeah,” Pete returned his gaze to his paper. “You know what I mean. Embarrassing stuff. Growing-up sort of stuff. That kind of thing.”
“Yeah,” repeated Benjamin, the conversation being typical of those he had with Pete in that it did not so much peter out, as never really start. Still, there was enough there to make him ponder - and not about girls: the UFO, Strifer’s craft, the obvious connection between the two. But he did not ponder for too long; it was getting late, and if truth be told, he was beginning to feel a little tired of thinking about it all. He rubbed at his right temple, as if to physically erase all those questions whose answers only ever seemed to lead to questions more. And when he took his hand away, he realised that his head was aching slightly.
He coughed, not for the first time that day, and when he finished clearing his throat afterwards, he noticed that it was starting to feel a little sore.
25
/>
He went to bed early that night, and slept without interruption, his mother on the recliner at his side. When he awoke, it felt as if he had hit a lead wall.
The previous day had simply been the calm before the storm: the illness that the doctors had portended was now upon him. His sheets felt stifling, and he was shuddering; the very act of getting up seemed as remote an ambition as scaling a mountainside. His mother, still in the room with him, placed a balmy hand on his forehead and told him that he was burning up. “Stay in bed,” she advised. “But keep the covers down. You need to be cold, I’m afraid.”
“But I’m shivering,” he protested.
“I know,” she said. “But it won’t help if you overheat. I’m sorry, Benjy-boy, but that’s how it goes when you have the flu.” She leaned down to kiss his brow. “You’ll be okay.”
She went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with a tray of cornflakes and juice, which she placed on his lap after urging him to sit up. “Can’t eat them,” he said, pointing at the bowl of cereal. “Throat stings,” he croaked.
“At least drink the orange,” said his mother, once more brandishing her trusty thermometer. “It’ll help cool you down.” She placed the thermometer under his tongue, and told him to keep it there for a little while. Afterwards, when she took the device out and checked it, she whistled. “Whoa,” she said. “You’re sizzling. Could heat the house with you; save on the bills.”
Benjamin gulped on the drink, wincing as it sluiced down his throat. “Hurts,” he muttered, plonking the half-finished cup back on the tray and rubbing under his chin. “Not nice.”
“It’ll do,” his mother said, removing the tray but leaving the cup on the bedside table, next to the gourd. “If you don't feel up to drinking it, then don’t. We don't want you being sick as well.”
“’Kay,” said Benjamin, flopping back down onto the pillow and giving an “Ow!” as he did so; his head was absolutely killing him, so much so that even the slightest impact gave some cause to wince. Afterwards there was little else to do but lay there, wait for the minutes to pass, and hope - wish - that the day ahead might bring something better than what it had brought so far.
***
He was ill, but not because of the flu. He was ill because of Vespinner, and he knew it.
He had been warned, of course. Warned by Strifer, who had been so thoroughly poisoned by the monster that he could only conclude that his life was over. Admittedly, the atulphi had reassured the boy that the same thing was not about to happen to him, though his head was currently too addled with fever to fully appreciate it. The creature's strike had been slight, relatively speaking, and so had the resultant contamination. In some ways, it was a blessing that his illness had left him so vague; it prevented him from latching wholeheartedly on to the idea that Strifer might have been mistaken, and that Vespinner's toxin was more potent than believed. Now and then he might have asked, "What if..?" but the question was soon clouded by the mental miasma of his sickness, or pounded to nothing by his aches. And if not those, then it was lost to sleep (which stole upon him frequently) and the dreams therein.
Yet even then, he did not dream of Vespinner. In the last that he could recall, he dreamed of his mother, who was opening draws and cupboards in his room as if searching for something. There were many more draws and cupboards than normal, but he had no problem with that; in dreams, the most bizarre things can seem ordinary. However, it did not seem so ordinary when she pulled out one of the draws and revealed the tucked-in shape of the plasticky figure he’d met on the top of Lilac’s tenement, the one with the strings coming out of the back of his head, and who had ended up being stuffed into a bag. Oddly, it did not appear to bother his mother as much as it did himself; she left the drawer open and went on to the others, even though Benjamin was crying out to her to close it. The plasticky-looking man, all squashed and folded, did not move, but he was certainly alive; the boy could see one of his eyes moving, half-hidden by his bent-backwards hands. When the dream finally began to ebb, Benjamin came round to find his mother opening the curtains in his room.
“I’ll close then if you like,” she said. With the curtains parted, she then opened the window, though only as far as the security locks would allow. “But I think some sunshine and fresh air will do you good.”
“Wha’?” murmured Benjamin. He covered his eyes with his arm; the sunlight seemed to blaze beyond even the golden.
His mother went over to his side. “You were asking me to close them,” she said. “Or were you dreaming?”
“Dreaming,” Benjamin said.
“Thought so.” She picked up a cup from the bedside table. “Here, have this.”
“Don't like it,” said the boy, grimacing again. “Orange hurts my throat.”
“It’s not orange,” his mother replied. “It’s medicine.”
He looked at the table and saw a bottle and spoon next to his gourd. Lifting himself up, he took the cup his mother offered and drank the contents down as fast as he could. It was bitter, but he ignored it; and it didn’t sting his throat as much as the orange juice had done. “Good show,” said his mother when he had finished. She offered him two spoonfuls of the stuff from the bottle, and again took his temperature. “Still high,” she said with a smile. “But no higher. Which is nice.”
“Doesn't feel like it,” said Benjamin, easing himself back down. “Feels horrible.”
“Course it does,” said his mother. She began to stroke his brow, her hand as marvellously cool as ever. “That’s why you need to rest. You were asleep for two hours, you know.”
She was very upbeat about it all; happy even. But Benjamin was in no state to wonder why. “Think I’ll sleep again,” he said, turning on his side. With the window open, a faintly chilly breeze was now about the room, but it was not unpleasant. He could hear birds twittering, passing cars, a barking dog; and Maddie, playing downstairs.
“Lunch will be soon,” said his mother, leaving him with a kiss on his cheek. “Try to eat something, okay?”
“Yeah,” he said.
And with that she departed - though not before giving a slight but wary glance towards the open window.
***
No dreams this time, and no sleep; only a pleasurable drifting sensation, made better by the languid, carefree sounds of the world outside and the snippets of chatter he caught from downstairs, between his mother and his sister. Had he not been so ill, he might have thought of it as being almost like a Saturday morning, with its sunny redolence and promise of no school. Instead, he merely accepted it as nice, and something like a due reward for having to feel so unwell.
***
By midday, he had brightened enough to eat most of the toast and honey that his mother had brought him for his lunch. His temperature had lowered a little, and he felt ready to get dressed and go downstairs. His mother asked him if he was sure, and he replied that he was; he was tired, true, and still felt pretty bad, but it seemed a waste of a day just to spend it in bed all the time. His mother agreed (it was her, after all, who usually said the same thing to him whenever it was the weekend), and - shakily - he got up and got dressed. Downstairs, he found Maddie playing with her play-blocks, studiously ignoring the news on the TV. Pete, quite obviously, had gone back to work.
He did little that afternoon, except remain on the sofa and stare listlessly at the television. His limbs ached, his head swam, and he had to muster extraordinary reserves of energy for even so much as a toilet break. His mother ferried a constant stream of icy drinks to him, while Maddie treated his condition with the kind of bratty unconcern that one finds in the very young: she huffed when he refused to play with her, whined when he was given a drink and she was not, and clacked her play-blocks together even harder when her mother asked her to stop. “Go and draw some cats,” her mother said, urging her to play quietly. Maddie told her that she didn’t like cats anymore, and threw a handful of blocks very hard at the bucket in which the rest were stored. The noi
se made Benjamin wince; Maddie was hauled upstairs and given a severe telling off. “I don't know what’s got into that girl lately,” his mother said when she returned.
“It’s ‘cos she’s getting older,” Benjamin replied, knowing the lesson that his sister had so recently learned, by way of her first great dream. “She can’t help it.”
“Aw, bless you,” his mother said, mistaking her son’s response for charity. “But I think she was just being selfish; that, or she’s coming down with what you’ve got.”
“Yeah,” said Benjamin, listening to the sobs of his sister upstairs. “Maybe.”
But Maddie was soon in more of a congenial mood; half an hour later, and she could be heard humming to herself as she played in her room. Benjamin continued to feel slightly better, and his mother continued to fuss around him, offering yet more drinks, trying to get him to eat a snack or two, taking his temperature, and so on. Pete came home at around three-ish, having started his shift very early. “Get the boy some chicken soup,” he said, when discussion got round to what they wanted for tea. Pete swore by what he called the ‘good old Jewish penicillin’ when it came to alleviating ills; Benjamin’s mother agreed.
By teatime, however, Benjamin was beginning to feel rough again. He was shivering, and couldn’t finish his soup. There was more medicine, and his mother, not quite so unconcerned now, ran him a cold bath. The boy resisted, but she would not budge on the issue, and Benjamin simply wasn’t up to the task of arguing his case anyway. The water was chilly, and unagreeably so; his teeth chattered and he shuddered even harder. When he was finished he felt just as hot, but it was nice to be clean. “It’s always at its worst in the mornings and the evenings,” said his mother, as she tucked him into his bed. Again, she took his temperature: “Getting there,” she said. She took her station on the recliner, and waited for her son to fall asleep.
And sleep came quickly; his mother did not have to wait very long at all. But before he drifted off completely, there was a moment of near wakefulness, and his thoughts suddenly became very clear and very precise. It was a nice feeling; in that moment he didn't feel even slightly ill. And with his mind so crystalline, and his body so restful, he realised why the fact of his illness had seemed to brighten his mother so much.