Riley Bloom Dreamland (6 page)

The man strode closer, the legs of his stretchy riding pants rubbing ominously together, as his knee-high boots smacked hard against the concrete in a chorus of doom. I narrowed my gaze on his tight blue shirt, noting how the buttons were
this
close to popping, while his silk, paisley scarf twisted loosely around his neck, once, twice, before floating behind him like a swirl of hazy jetstream.

And the next thing I knew, he was standing before us, hand clutched to his chest as he

said,

“Aw,

but

she

is

perfetto
!

Perfection—I

say!

Hurry

now
,

vite-

vite
—there is no time to waste!” I paused, looking to Mort for guidance, unsure what to do. After the ordeal with the guard I was afraid of saying or doing anything wrong.

But a second later, the strange little man was tugging on my sleeve, pulling me toward him as he said, “You must come—and quickly! She is just what I have asked for! A gift that has arrived—how do you say? In the very nick of time! How did you know that I needed you now?” He glanced my way, eyebrow arched high, not allowing any time to reply before he waved his hand before him and said, “Never mind! I do not question the how—I accept this gift as it is. There is no time to waste—no time at all! Just, please, this must be worn—” He thrust a pair of pristine white gossamer wings into my arms.

“Now, quickly, you must follow,
vite-vite
! We must not delay!”

I rushed alongside him, bolted over a wide swath of concrete, over a winding trail of grass, followed by a path of crumbly asphalt.

Going right past a big, surprisingly run-down, abandoned building, slowing my pace as I struggled to get the wings securely placed on my back. Having no idea what they might be for, but so happy to be moving away from the gate I decided not to ask.

“I thought it was over. I was sure I would be forced to compromise—something of which I, Balthazar, am not fond, not fond at all.” He glanced at Buttercup, smiling brightly as he added, “A dream is a delicate recipe—consisting of only the purest ingredients. A dream must be handled with great care. Like soufflé!” He clapped his hands together, delighted with his own metaphor. “A delicate balance with no room for substi-tutes. I was all out of options, I was
this
close to leaving—” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, held it high over his shoulder so that Buttercup, Mort, and I could all see.

“I think to myself:
Balthazar, maybe this
time you really do quit
.
Maybe now is when
you retire for good!
And then, the very next moment, what do I see?”

He stopped so abruptly I nearly crashed into his side, and it took a moment to realize he was actually awaiting a reply.

I smiled serenely, using the
Mona Lisa
as my guide. My chin lowered, eyes downcast, voice quiet and humbled as I said, “I am honored to be of service. I do have a very strange knack for showing up at just the right time.”

I paused, swaddled in the comfort of feeling rather pleased with myself. Then I lifted my eyes to meet his, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t exactly
me
that he found so
magnifico
and
perfetto.

Nope, it wasn’t me at all.

It was Buttercup that had him enthralled.

Balthazar squinted as though seeing me for the very first time, which, I soon realized, he was.

“What is this?” He scoffed, face creased in-to a scowl as he yanked away the wings he’d thrust at me earlier. “You make joke with me? Is that it? Balthazar has great sense of humor, everyone agrees. But now is not time for jokes! Balthazar has very important work! The dreamer will awaken if we do not move quickly—all will be lost!” He shook his head, muttered under his breath, and struggled to place the wings onto a very unhappy, not-so-cooperative Buttercup.

Still feeling a little annoyed by the way I’d been treated, the way I’d come in second place to my dog, I placed my hands on my hips and said, “Um, okay, but just so you know, Buttercup is a he,
not
a she. Also, he doesn’t need wings to fly, he can manage just fine on his own.”

Balthazar’s eyes grew wide, and then wider still. Hardly able to believe his good fortune as he grabbed hold of Buttercup’s collar and ran, leaving Mort and me to struggle to catch up with them.

“Balthazar has an artistic temperament,” Mort told me, his words punctuated by the sound of his black dress shoes pounding the asphalt. “He can get a bit …
testy
at times, but that’s only because he’s such a perfec-tionist. He has vision. Remarkable vision.

He’s a master. The absolute best. No one can handle a dream jump like him. He’s just as big a legend Here as he was on the earth plane. Not to worry, Buttercup is in good hands.”

“But who
is
Balthazar?” I asked, choosing to slow, no longer trying to keep up their pace. Mort shot me a strange look then pointed at the fading figure ahead, but I just shook my head and said, “No, what I meant was,
who
is he? What does he
do
here?” Mort turned, brows quirked in disbelief.

“Balthazar runs the place! Has for years.

Back when he was alive, he was one of the most celebrated directors of all time. Got a shelf full of Oscars to prove it. Now that he’s Here he oversees all the dream jumps. Has a handful of assistant directors to help him, but make no mistake, he’s in charge. You got a dream visitation in mind, you gotta go through him. He’s your only hope. He decides who makes the cut.”

9

“S
he is a natural. She has done this before, no?”

I gazed down the tip of Balthazar’s pointing finger, watching Buttercup take flight, soaring back and forth across a set arranged to

look

like

a

beautiful

enchanted

garden—complete with blooming trees, a sparkling lawn, and a glistening lake populated by a small group of black and white swans.

“
He,
” I said, my voice more than a little testy, maybe too testy. But still, how many times would I be forced to say it before he understood? “Buttercup is a
he,
” I repeated, but it was no use, my words fell on deaf ears.

Balthazar merely waved it away, jumped from his chair, and motioned for Buttercup to soar higher, for the swans to glide faster, as a guy who looked to be in his twenties walked hand in hand with a girl, whispering softly into her ear.

I hoisted myself onto the director’s chair an assistant had brought me, crossing one leg over the other, and turning to Mort, just about to ask him a question when he shook his head and pointed toward the sign overhead with the bright red letters that read: SILENCE! DREAM IN PROGRESS!

Left with no choice but to shelve all my questions ’til later, I took a good look around, taking in the hive of activity, the sheer amount of work it took to make a dream happen. It was surprising to say the least.

Up until then I’d always assumed that dreams were … well … a whole lot simpler than what I saw unfolding before me. I always assumed they were woven from remnants of random thoughts and experiences that happened during the day—bits and pieces of things seen and heard, mixed in with mere figments of the imagination. All of it sort of swirling together like some kind of fantastical, subconscious soup. Or at least that was the gist of the dream interpretation book Ever got me one year for Christmas.

But according to what I saw happening in Dreamland, that book was dead wrong.

It was a production.

Like a major, big-time production.

Reminding me of the time my class took a field trip to see an opera in Portland, not long before I died.

Just like the opera, the set was elaborate, carefully crafted, containing a whole crew of actors, including my dog, who continued to fly overhead. Yet there was also a whole crew of people working off the stage too. Including costume designers, makeup artists, and hair stylists, as well as lighting technicians, a stunt person or two, and a whole team that, from what I could see, were in charge of the special effects.

Also like the opera, there was a pit at the edge of the stage where the orchestra sat. A small group of musicians clutching a strange variety of horns, and cans, and chains, and, yeah, some even had the kind of musical instruments you might expect—all of them keeping a close eye on Balthazar—awaiting their signal, to make just the right sound, at just the right moment.

It was amazing.

Absolutely and completely amazing.

Watching it all unfold right before me, well, I couldn’t help but take a quick mental inventory of all the old dreams I remembered from my past, unable to see them the same way I once had.

Though unlike the opera, it seemed it was over before it could really get started. And the next thing I knew Balthazar leaped from his chair and shouted, “She’s awake! That’s a wrap! Good work, everyone!”

The girl vanished—like, one second she was there and the next,
not.
And while the crew busied themselves with clearing the stage and dismantling the set, the guy wiped the tears from his eyes and profusely thanked Balthazar—telling him that for the first time since his death, he felt like he’d truly gotten through to his grieving fiancée.

Buttercup bounded toward the pile of doggy biscuits Balthazar held in his hand. All puffed up and self-satisfied with his performance, his newfound star power, he went about the business of busily wolfing them down, as Balthazar smiled and said, “Here he is—the true star of this show!” Then looking at me, he added, “I am in your debt. Because of your dog, the dream was saved. The girl was dreaming of a beautiful field of sparkling lakes, black and white swans, and, believe it or not, angelic, flying dogs. And, as I had none on hand, when you showed up when you did—well, it saved the entire production.

So please, tell me, how can I ever repay you?”

I pressed my lips together, struggled to make sense of his words. What he’d just said was entirely different from what I thought I’d just witnessed.

“Wait—” I squinted, shook my head. “You mean to say that you didn’t actually
create
that dream?” I gazed right at him, noting how he was so short, he was exactly eye level with me. “Are you saying that you merely
re-created
a dream that was
already in progress
?” My mind ran with the concept—it was an even bigger feat than I’d imagined.

I glanced toward Mort, alerted by the way his eyebrows shot up so high they practically blended into his scalp, and when my gaze landed on Balthazar again, well, he just looked at me and balked.

Like, seriously balked.

His lips flattening, whitening, as his nos-trils flared, his ears twitched, and his cheeks threatened to explode in a burst of red, anger-fueled fury.

And then, just when I was sure it couldn’t get any worse, I watched, completely mortified (completely mystified!), as Balthazar spun on his heel and stormed away without another word.

10

F
or someone who had just professed to be in my debt—for someone who had just claimed that because of my dog I had heroically saved the day—for someone who claimed to have ginormous gobs of gratitude reserved just for me—well, all I can say is that when Balthazar stormed away, it pretty much cancelled all that.

Buttercup slunk to his belly and let out a low, sorrowful whimper, as Mort mumbled a whole string of words under his breath that sounded like, “
Oh boy, now you’ve done it

…” I just stood there and gaped, having no idea what I’d done to offend Balthazar in such a big, apparently unforgivable way.

It was Mort who finally went after him, somehow convincing him to stop long enough to hear him out. And though I still have no idea what he said, I do know that Balthazar reconsidered, turned, and finally made his way back where he stood before me, taking great care to enunciate each and every word as he said, “I am told this is your first visit to Dreamland, no?” I nodded, far too afraid to say something wrong.

He paused, studied me closely, fingering the knotted silk scarf at his throat. “And so, this … this …
ignorance
of yours, it must be forgiven, yes?”

I nodded again. Not really liking the word

“ignorance” being so easily applied to me, but knowing better than to say anything.

“And so, we shall agree to never speak of it again?”

I glanced between Mort and Buttercup, saw their dual nods of encouragement. Then I looked at Balthazar, and said, “Um, okay …

I just thought maybe you could help me send a dream to my sister, but I guess I misunderstood, so …”

Mort gasped.

Buttercup placed his paws over his eyes.

And just when I was sure it couldn’t get any worse, Balthazar spoke in a voice that was quite a bit higher, quite a bit screechier than I’d come to expect. “Correction!” he practically shouted. “We do not
send
dreams.

Nor do we
create
dreams, but, rather, we
dream jump
. You would like to
dream jump,
I think, yes?”

He nodded. Nodded in a way that told me that if I knew what was good for me then I would nod too.

So I did.

And then, I cleared my throat and said,

“Yes,”
just to reiterate.

And then I nodded again.

It may have been overkill. But heck, practically from the moment I’d arrived I’d said everything wrong. From what I could tell, these people were really stuck on using just the right words, so I don’t think I can be blamed for trying to do something right for a change.

Though luckily, it seemed to work, because Balthazar just looked at me and said, “Good.

Now, please, come with me, Miss Riley Bloom.”

A
ccording to Balthazar, time, or rather, the time of day, really wasn’t all that important where dream jumping was concerned. Something which I considered a good thing, since A: from what I’d been told, there is no time in the Here & Now, and B: also from what I’d been told, Dreamland had some pretty strict opening and closing hours.