Dreamquake: Book Two of the Dreamhunter Duet (8 page)

She felt dizzy. She felt that she had woken up to find herself lying on a window. She was in a big wheel of light, in which she could see tiled rooftops, a silver river split by streets, and one familiar roof, oval, with a jeweled dome—the Rainbow Opera.

Laura sat up. She found that she was sitting within a circular image of the Isle of the Temple. It was a projection. She turned to the source of the light and looked up into the mirror. Through its dazzle she thought she saw the island, impossibly bright, impossibly compressed.

The candle above the door had gone out.

Laura climbed off the table and pulled the door open. She looked back at the table. The image had disappeared. When she closed the door again, sealing out the light, the image came back.

Laura pushed her blankets off the table and looked down on the round bird’s-eye view of the Isle. She made out the movement of vehicles in streets, pedestrians in the square, the quick alteration of sunlight across the face of the river, the streaming speed of a flock of birds passing over the rooftops. She gazed at this small circle of the world surrounded by darkness. She was turned inward but looking out. She watched without being seen. It was eerie and wonderful. And, as she circled, peering down, the image very gradually grew darker. The windows of the Isle bristled with gold light, then
the streetscape and river turned ghostly, and, finally, the chamber went black.

Laura felt her way to the door and opened it on a square of dark blue twilight air. She fumbled around on the ledge above the door and found the other candle and a box of matches. She lit the candle, set it upright, and sat on the floor to wait.

Later there was noise and vibration from the ladder, and one of the sisters reappeared, a basket on her back. Laura gave the sister a hand and helped her into the room.

The nun unpacked food and drink. She said, “I’m here to feed you and prevent you from sleeping.” And, “Here,” she passed Laura a chamber pot and a bottle of water.

“Thank you,” said Laura. “Where’s my aunt?”

“I won’t answer questions. Would you like to make yourself comfortable now, then replace the lid, rinse your hands, and have something to eat.”

Laura did as she was told. She emptied her bladder and washed her hands. The nun had found two seats under the table. She set food before one and watched as Laura ate. Then she lit several more candles, got out some darning, and passed Laura a Bible. She asked that Laura read to her as she plied her needle. Acts. Then the Gospel of St. Thomas. “His disciples said to him: On what day will the Kingdom come? Jesus said: It cometh not with observation. They will not say, Lo here! Or Lo, there! The kingdom of the Father is spread out upon the earth, and men do not see it.”

Sometime during the night Laura picked up a blanket and wrapped it around herself. And sometime during the night the nun gave her a lesson with needle and yarn and darning egg. Laura hadn’t darned before—nor had she ever worn a darned stocking. She was clumsy; her hands were sore. The sister read to her while she worked.

When they heard the bells in the bell tower ringing, the sister stopped reading. “Matins,” she said. “I’ll go now. I was told you could be safely left by morning. I suggest you push that chamber pot well under the table so that you won’t risk knocking it over with your foot.” She gathered her darning and the remains of the meal, leaving Laura several apples, a bottle of water, and the Bible.

Laura left the door open. She reassembled her bedding, knotted the sleeves of her nightgown again, and lay down. She made no attempt to fight sleep. She’d managed perhaps five hours in all—five hours in five days. The nightmare didn’t let her stay asleep. She’d had it three times now—when she’d first caught it, then at the Rainbow Opera, then in the late afternoon of the day before. Each time she’d fought her way out, fought as the buried man strained to escape his coffin.

This time her body’s need for sleep anchored her in the dream. Her struggle was horribly prolonged. When she was finally able to free herself, she could scarcely move. She lay in her twisted bedding and howled with shock and despair.

Once her shuddering had subsided to shivers, Laura’s eyes kept trying to shut themselves again, so she got up and went to sit on the sill of the low doorway in the cold morning air. From there she watched the Isle come to life, its bridges fill with cars, carts, and pedestrians. She watched the men at work on telegraph poles, putting up wires for the new phone system that was slowly spreading its way around the city. She watched the smoke of trains passing across the two bridges that linked the west bank to the Isle, and the Isle to the east. This was a commuter line; it came in from Founderston’s western suburbs through villas and parks, then past Founderston Girls’ Academy. It passed through the district that held the museums, galleries, libraries, and government buildings, after which it crossed the river, went through a tunnel built
under the wide plaza before the tower of the Regulatory Body, and left the Isle by a bridge to the east. The line then passed through the Old Town and terminated at Founderston Central Station, with its rail yards, warehouses, station hotels, circling cabs, and rail lines on to long-distance destinations. Laura watched all the traffic, and birds passing above and below her. The sun came out of the clouds and warmed her where she sat. She ate an apple.

Midmorning she felt the vibrations on the ladder, and shortly afterward a head appeared over the horizon of the dome. It was Father Roy. He was followed by a man in a white robe, with a golden beard and a square, brimless white hat.

5

ATHER ROY REMAINED BY THE DOOR, AND THE GRAND PATRIARCH, ERASMUS TIEBOLD, ADVANCED AROUND THE CONCAVE
table—the screen for his camera obscura—till he realized that the girl would continue to drift away from him, trailing her damaged fingertips around the rim of the tabletop like someone house-proud checking for dust. He came to a standstill and started to talk. He spoke softly. “I thought I would give you some time to reflect,” he said.

Laura Hame had reached a point equidistant between Father Roy and himself. She stopped and looked at him. “Where’s Aunt Marta?”

“She is at home with Downright and the estimable Mr. and Mrs. Bridges.”

“So, she left me to you.”

“Yes. You do know that we are kin, Laura. Your Tiebold grandfather was my cousin.”

The girl nodded.

“And when you sent me a letter, you gave me a certain amount of responsibility for you.” The Grand Patriarch produced the letter and laid it on the tabletop. Then he told Father Roy to close the door. Laura stumbled against the wall away from them, but once the door was sealed and the image
from the twenty-four-inch lens and forty-inch mirror of the camera obscura flowed in full, brilliant color, the girl came back and stood staring at him, her face lit from below. The Grand Patriarch pointed at the camera housing. “Can you reach that handle above your head?” he said.

She put her hand on it.

“Give it a turn.”

She had to use both hands and hang her weight on the handle to bring it down. The camera moved with a hollow, rolling noise. The image swam, and the east bank of the Sva swung into the light as the bridges to the west slid away into darkness. Laura stopped winding and looked down on a slightly different slice of the city.

“Does it make you feel godlike?” the Grand Patriarch asked. “Like a hidden and disembodied witness?”

“No,” said the girl.

The Grand Patriarch touched the image on the tabletop. “Why did you write to me?”

“I wrote to the Director of the Regulatory Body and the editor of the
Founderston Herald
as well.”

“And none of the letters were signed with your name?”

“No. They are all signed ‘Lazarus,’ and I had someone else copy them out for me.”

“Why disown what you chose to do?”

“I did what my father asked me to do. It was his idea. There wasn’t any other way.”

The Grand Patriarch made a gesture—putting that aside for now. “I can’t question your father about his motives, but perhaps you can answer for him.”

“I want to go!” Laura said, plaintive. “I need to go In and overwrite this nightmare. I’m so tired my heart won’t slow down. What will happen when I can’t make myself wake up? I
don’t know what happens in the
end.
But the man in the coffin never gets out. He dies in there. He takes a long time to die. I don’t want to go on and dream that.”

“So—is that what you caught? A man trapped in a coffin until he dies?”

Laura blinked at him. She looked surprised and momentarily relieved. “No. I didn’t catch the nightmare to its end. I woke up before I got there.”

“Then I don’t see how you can dream a death you didn’t catch,” the Grand Patriarch said, practical. “Laura, I want to talk to you about what you’ve done.”

The girl sighed and shrugged. “My letter explains it.”

“Well then, according to your letter, you wanted to gain support for people who were being terrorized?”

Laura nodded.

“And in order to do that you chose to terrorize people?”

She stared at him, sullen. “What other way was there to show them? How else could I prove it? I didn’t have any evidence. I couldn’t take
photographs
of what was happening.”

The Grand Patriarch paced back and forth for a moment, thinking. He ran his hand along the table through rooftops and courtyards, streets, flights of steps, waterways, hurrying people. “In my grandparents’ day, no one was taking photographs. Do you think that the people back then believed that testimony—to any crime—needed photographic evidence to support it? Are people now any less inclined to listen to testimony? To listen in good faith?”

“You would say ‘faith,’ ” the girl said, insolent but without any great energy.

“Faith doesn’t just mean faith in God, Laura. It means faith in people, in the truth, in truth-telling. Faith in your own ability to make yourself heard. Faith that people will understand
what you take the time to explain to them. Faith that people don’t need to be tricked, or
sold
the truth.”

“I wanted to do what Da told me to. He left me a letter asking me to do what I did. I followed his wishes. I kept faith with him.”

The Grand Patriarch studied the girl before him. “Do you think you did the right thing?”

“I was
asked.
And it wasn’t just Da. I kept catching dreams about convicts. Why would I dream about convicts unless the Place wanted me to help them too?”

“You caught dreams about convicts?”

“I found convicts in dreams. Sometimes it seemed they
found me.
I did what I could. I could only think to do what Da asked me to.” Laura sounded quite desperate. She pressed her forearms into her stomach so hard that she stooped. She seemed to be trying to hold herself together. Then she took a deep, shuddering breath, straightened up, and said, “Besides, if you could do something that no one else could, wouldn’t you have to find your own way of acting in the world?”

“I can’t think what you might mean,” said the Grand Patriarch. “Unless you’re boasting—as dreamhunters do—about the size of your penumbra.” He shook his head and saw that she was echoing his gesture. “Tell me, how does finding a new way match up with just doing what your father asked you to do?”

“Maybe I found a new father,” she said, and gave a little, wild laugh.