Dream Master

‘Of course you can. It’s your dream.’ The Dream Master spoke slowly and distinctly. ‘But you will need – to – concentrate – very – carefully – indeed.’

A part of Cy’s brain registered that the little man was speaking to him in the same way that some adults address the very old, the very young, or the very mad. He’s scared, thought Cy. He is really scared at what I might do. He is so terrified, in fact, that for the first time ever he has stopped shouting at me.

‘I need help,’ Cy whispered.

The Dream Master gripped his arm. ‘Think of some other volcano,’ he said in an encouraging voice.

‘I can’t.’ As always, when in a tricky situation, Cy’s brain had slipped to the bottom of his head.

‘San Francisco?’ suggested the Dream Master. ‘Didn’t something happen in California at the beginning of the twentieth century when San Francisco nearly burned down?’

‘That was an earthquake,’ said Cy. ‘We don’t do earthquakes until after we’ve done volcanoes.’

‘Excuse me!’ said the Dream Master. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not kept up to date with the changes in the school curriculum.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Nobody can,’ said Cy. ‘You should hear my mum about how little attention is given to her modern languages department, but that’s not the point anyway.’

‘Ten out of ten, Cy!’ The Dream Master spoke through gritted teeth. His face was contorted with the effort of trying to keep his temper. ‘You are absolutely correct. That is not the point.’

Cy gave himself a shake. There had to be some kind of safe thought in his head . . . something comforting . . .

Suddenly from nowhere there was a blur in the air above the raft.

The Dream Master waved his arms. ‘What is going on? What is flying about up there?’

‘It’s Peter!’ said Cy. ‘It’s Peter Pan!’

‘I can’t stand it!’ shrieked the Dream Master. ‘At this moment in Time you must not get involved in a dream where myth gets mythed— mixed up.’ He pointed upwards. ‘Get rid of him. He can’t help us in this situation.’

Cy felt that familiar panicky feeling when things happened too fast for him to cope with. It would sometimes happen in class if he had to read aloud. Mrs Chalmers usually gave him time to gather his thoughts but even she could be impatient. ‘Why can’t I think of anything fast or quickly enough?’ he moaned. ‘It’s always like this with me. My brain doesn’t work at speed, especially when I’m under pressure.’

‘Stop whining,’ snapped the Dream Master, ‘and think of something relevant to the situation.’

‘I’m trying to think of something. I must have thought of Peter Pan, but that was to do with you having your cloak sewn back together.’ Cy turned to the Dream Master. ‘Why didn’t that work then? Why didn’t we move on to a dream about Peter Pan?’

‘Don’t be a Dimwit,’ screeched the Dream Master, beginning to lose it again. ‘Haven’t you learned anything in all the dreams you’ve done previously? There’s got to be a link.’

‘A link?’ Cy repeated.

‘Yes,’ said the Dream Master impatiently. ‘Think of story sequencing, think of continuity. You can’t just jump randomly from one topic to another unless you establish a link.’

‘What’s that then?’ asked Cy.

‘Transition!’ yelled the Dream Master. ‘The change or passage from one state or stage to another. Find a way to move from one scene to the next without losing control of the story – or, in your case, the dream.’

‘Uh.’ Cy stared through the blurring rain that had begun to fall. The wind was rising and the swell of the sea started to buffet their little boat.

‘Didn’t you do any research at all?’ the Dream Master yelled, at Cy.

‘Of course I did,’ Cy shouted back.

‘Well, try and remember some of it. Find a link to get us out of here.’

Myths . . . The Dream Master’s voice echoed in Cy’s head. He had said something about myths. In times gone past it was how people explained happenings that they couldn’t understand. That was where a lot of the old stories and legends came from, mankind trying to make sense of things for which they hadn’t enough scientific knowledge. Anything violent in nature, they would say that the gods were angry. The Japanese thought that a volcano was a giant catfish moving underwater . . .

The boat heaved. A few miles away the ocean began to boil. Breaking the surface of the waves was a huge fin.

The Dream Master put his head in his hands. ‘I can’t look,’ he moaned. ‘Now we’re going to be eaten by a catfish. Cy,’ he said urgently, ‘now would be the best time for you to focus that thought. Cy!’ he yelled as the boat began to up-end itself. ‘Cy! Cy!’

‘Cy . . .’ Cy repeated his own name. ‘Cy . . .’ He searched in his mind for any piece of information which might help him out of this fix. ‘. . . clops,’ he finished, and grinned wildly at the Dream Master.

‘Clops?’ The Dream Master gave him a baffled look.

‘Transition!’ cried Cy. ‘I’ve done it! In Italy somewhere there’s an extinct volcano. I read about it in one of my books. From a distance the crater looks like a giant eye. In ancient times it was thought to be the one-eyed giants who helped the fire god in his underground forge. They were called the Cyclops who fought with fire and rocks.’

The Dream Master spread apart his fingers and peered at Cy with one eye. ‘Cy . . . cyclops?’ he said.

‘Yep,’ said Cy.

‘Is that the best transition you can do?’

‘It’s a good one,’ said Cy. ‘Vesuvius was a volcano but it hasn’t erupted for quite a while.’

‘And we hope never again,’ said a soft voice at Cy’s elbow.

Cy turned. He was among vineyards on a sunny hillside. A young woman stood beside him.

‘Although –’ she looked upwards – ‘the sky has been cloudy, which is unseasonal for this time of year, and there is a strange breeze blowing offshore. Like this.’ And she blew softly into Cy’s face.

‘That’s not how you wake someone up,’ said a kind voice. ‘Wake up, Cy. Wake up.’

‘Wendy?’ said Cy. He blinked, and looked at the figure standing between him and the light from his bedroom window. It was Wendy! She must have come to sew on Peter Pan’s shadow. Great, thought Cy, she can mend the dreamcloak at the same time.

But she only laughed when Cy told her this. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘This afternoon you and I are going shopping.’

‘Mum!’ yelped Cy.

‘You’ve been dreaming,’ said Cy’s mum. ‘Come on, school starts next week. It’s time to get you a new uniform.’

Cy sat up on his bed. ‘Please no. I’m very busy today. I’ve got a school project to do.’

‘We have to shop for new school clothes,’ replied his mum. ‘I don’t enjoy it any more than you do. Don’t make a fuss,’ she begged. ‘I’ve already had Lauren moaning at me and we haven’t even started yet.’

‘Can’t you just buy the stuff and I’ll wear it?’ pleaded Cy. ‘You know I don’t care what it looks like. I’ll wear anything.’

‘No deal, Cy,’ said his mum. ‘It saves time if you come along. Then I know that we’ve got the right size.’

‘It doesn’t save my time,’ Cy grumbled as he stood up. This was going to be an afternoon of torture. Lauren and his mother would now have pitched battles in every store in town, and still not agree on what was suitable school wear. For that to happen would require a peace commission more powerful than for any war-torn country.

‘I’d like you to be downstairs ready to leave in ten minutes, please.’ Cy’s mum stopped on her way out the door. ‘There’s a burning smell in here. You’ve not been playing about with matches, Cy, have you?’ She looked at him closely.

‘No!’ said Cy.

His mum went to the window. ‘Oh, it’s Mr Bridges next door. He’s got a bonfire blazing away there. It’s such an end-of-the-summer smell, isn’t it? Some smoke seems to have drifted in,’ she said, wiping the soot marks off the window-ledge with her fingers. ‘I wonder what he’s burning?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s got a very strong smell.’

Dragging his feet, Cy began to follow his mother out of the room. Then he too stopped and sniffed the air. His mum was right. There was an odd smell in his room. But it wasn’t the smoke from their neighbour’s bonfire.

The smell was like sulphur, he was sure of it. The type of smell you got from rotten eggs . . . the same kind of smell that hung around a volcano when it was about to erupt.