The Dreamcatcher’s Boy – Fiona Egglestone
January 29th, 2009 | Published in Volume III: Cautionary Tales
Down a dark, dark lane, was a dark, dark house, and in that house lived a dark, dark man. The rhyme kept going around in his head as he approached the house. “Stop it!” he told himself. Already, the light was fading. He shivered, forcing himself to move. While he did not want to get stuck out here in a snowstorm, apprehension and fatigue turned his feet to stone.
He tried singing another song, to take his mind off the stories that he couldn’t help remembering, but the words faltered on his lips and the tune drifted into nothingness. It wasn’t that he was afraid. He didn’t believe in fear. In his experience, people who gave into fear ended up dead, or worse. He was a survivor.
His head swam: he felt disorientated. Everything around him was white, from the snow that covered the ground to the storm-heavy sky.
Something compelled him to continue on his errand. As he looked back over his shoulder he felt strangely comforted to see his footprints; solid, physical evidence of his passing.
Taking a deep breath, he blinked and tried to focus. He realised he was still holding the package; it was the reason he was still out here now while all the others had returned to the relative warmth of the loft above the stables where they slept.
He switched the package into his left hand, thrusting the right one deep into his pocket. If anyone had asked him, he couldn’t have said why he didn’t want to come here. It wasn’t the distance, or the snow, or the tall tales some of the others told about the old, run down mansion as they sat around the fire at night. It was just a feeling. Given the choice, he wouldn’t have taken the assignment for a hundred pounds – a king’s ransom. But he hadn’t been given a choice.
No-one else wanted to come here either. The package was small, and neither bloodstained nor breathing. Nor was it obviously valuable, leaving its bearer vulnerable to attack by opportunistic thieves. All he had to do was deliver the package to the house. A simple enough assignment and yet, since the order had been handed out that morning, the job had changed hands several times via threats, intimidation, favours (either promised or called in), and the complicated system of bartering that impinged upon all of them.
The heavy, dark gate creaked as he pushed it open. There were rumours that this place was haunted. People had reported seeing strange lights and shapes moving in front of the windows. Others said that Crazy Charley had gone into the house for a dare. He’d never spoken about what he had experienced, but when he came out, two days later, his wits did not return with him.
The boy took a deep breath; he gripped the lion’s head knocker and rapped hard three times. Nothing. He tried again. Nobody came to answer the door. He did not want to just leave the package lying in the snow on the doorstep, so he went around the back of the house where he knocked again. By now it was growing dark, and the temperature had dropped even further. Still no-one came. He turned the handle of the door, which to his surprise, opened easily.
“Hello?” he called. He did not want to get into trouble for trespassing, but at the same time, he needed to find someone so he could deliver the package.
He tried some of the doors: most were locked, the others yielding only empty rooms. At the end of the corridor, he turned the handle. This door opened easily. What he saw made him gasp in surprise. It was a huge room, with large chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The light made him blink. He gaped as he looked around. The room was filled with shelves, which in turn were each filled with hundreds of stoppered glass bottles of varying shapes, sizes and colours. Large ladders on wheels allowed whoever used the bottles to reach the higher shelves.
He looked more closely at the contents of one of the nearby shelves. Each bottle had a label tied onto it with string. Curiosity got the better of him: he picked up one of the bottles. On the manila label, someone had written in a flowing, spidery hand ‘Of Flying’. As he looked closer at the bottle, he realised that the sky blue contents were not liquid, as he had originally presumed, but gaseous, moving continually. When he returned the bottle to its shelf, the contents curiously became still once more.
Just then, he heard a sound. He tensed, instantly alert. He had to get out of here! In his haste to leave, he managed to catch one of the bottles with his elbow as he ran. It teetered and smashed before his horrified eyes. Smoke rose up from the remnants of the bottle, and his last thought was that he was never going to be able to talk himself out of this one….
The sound of glass breaking alerted Victor that the package had been delivered, right on time. Opening the door, he was surprised to discover a small, grubby-looking boy curled up on the floor, smashed glass surrounding him and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper still clutched in his hand.
Victor studied the sleeping boy. He reached out a hand and touched his head, trying to get a sense of his character. There was definite possibility there. The boy’s emaciated frame weighed little, and Victor picked him up easily. There was no need to worry about waking him. In his dream-sleep, he would not stir for hours.
After he had made the boy comfortable in one of the guest rooms, Victor took the parcel up to his laboratory. He carefully undid the string and brown paper that surrounded it, revealing a small wooden box. Inside the box, wrapped in a piece of dark velvet lay a milky white orb of polished quartz. Victor ran his fingers over the crystal. It was warm to the touch, and seemed to glow faintly with a luminescence that brightened on contact. He smiled. He had missed its presence [repetition].
Victor’s thoughts returned to the boy the stone had brought to him; he wondered if this time, he had found the one he had been looking for. The boy was sensitive, that much was obvious. He’d noticed the unease that lingered around the urchin like a dark cloud, a result of his proximity to the orb. The orb’s magic would repulse those without the right qualities, which meant the package had changed hands several times. When it found a likely candidate, it would compel them to return it to its rightful owner.
The boy woke with a start as something heavy landed on his stomach. He immediately drew his arms and legs in to protect himself from the blow that would undoubtedly follow.
“Off, Jinxy,” said a voice from the other side of the room. Just a cat, it was just a cat, he realised. The owner of the voice came towards him, holding a candle, which he put down on the bedside table.
“What am I doing here?”
“Don’t you remember?” the old man asked softly.
It all came back to him then, the snow, the package – and the strange room filled with hundreds of bottles.
The old man considered the boy in front of him. Dark eyes, thick, curly tangled dark hair, covered in grime and half starved. The kid was a mess.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“If I had one once, I don’t remember. All the others just call me Boy.”
The ginger cat jumped up onto the bed and started to wash herself.
“This is Jinxy. Most troublesome cat I’ve ever had. I’m Victor.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” the boy responded automatically.
“Well, if you don’t have a name, you’d better choose one.”
The boy was silent for a while, and then just shrugged. “I don’t know, Sir.”
“Hmmph! Well, in that case, do you mind if I call you Crow? There’s something about you that reminds me of a baby crow that tumbled right down the chimney into my fireplace once. Luckily the fire hadn’t been lit.”
The boy smiled for the first time.
“So what were you doing in my Dreaming Room?”
“I didn’t mean to do it,” Crow looked startled, and ready to bolt.
“Relax, Crow. You’re not in trouble. Really.”
“I just came to deliver the package.”
“Ah, the package. So that’s what you do, is it? You’re a courier?”
“Among other things. Whatever they want me to do, really. I’m a Foundling.”
That explained a lot. Crow was one of the orphaned children of the city, exploited by the criminal masterminds who ran the Underworld. [This comes out of nowhere. Need to set up the world you’re writing about earlier.]
“I’m a Dreamcatcher,” Victor admitted.
Crow drew in a breath. The Dreamcatchers were the stuff of legend. There were many stories about them, but he’d thought that they were just that, stories. All the Foundlings loved tall tales, generally the scarier and more gruesome the better. Crow froze as he suddenly recalled one he’d heard about the Dreamcatchers where they took not only your dreams, but your soul as well.
“We could have a problem.” Victor fixed his gaze upon the boy. “Now that you’ve seen my Dreaming Room, I can’t let you leave.”
Crow’s heart raced. So this was it. He wondered whether it would hurt much, and then realised that actually, it didn’t really matter. His death would be a release from the daily beatings, intimidation and abuse. The only thing that he would regret was not being able to say goodbye to Sally. She’d always looked out for him, ever since she’d found him wandering the streets, all those years ago, and brought him back to the only home she knew. [A bit late to bring in a new character. Mention her earlier if she’s important.]
“It seems to me,” said Victor, with a twinkle in his eye, for he knew exactly what Crow was currently imagining, “That I could do with an assistant. Would you be interested in working for me?”
“You shouldn’t joke with me like that, Sir, it’s not right.” He had long since given up on hope. In his world, dreams made you vulnerable. The only way to survive was to be tough, or strong. If you were neither, you either became very fast, or wound up very dead.
“Have you ever thought you’d had a dream, or nightmare, but upon waking, couldn’t remember it? That’s a Dreamcatcher’s work.” Victor explained. “I collect raw dreams from people as they sleep and turn them into something much more powerful.”
“That’s what all the bottles are?”
“Yes. Dreams of everything you could possibly imagine. I have dreams of tropical islands with golden beaches, huge palm trees and cities made of gold. Dreams of princesses to be rescued and monsters to be vanquished. They are all there. People need hope, that’s why they buy dreams. Dreams have a power beyond their substance. People will die for a dream, or give up everything they ever owned.”
Crow wondered how Victor knew which dreams to give to each person.
“The dreams tell me.” It was almost as if Victor had read his mind. “You will learn too, once you get used to them.”
Victor climbed down the ladder with small bottle in his hand. He brushed a heavy layer of dust from it, causing Crow to cough.
“This one has been waiting for you for a long time,” he said, handing his apprentice the dream. He hardly recognised the tall lad standing in front of him as the skinny, grubby and malnourished scrap of a boy he’d found on the floor of his Dreaming Room a few months ago. [Clumsy passage of time, I had to re-read it. If you put this sentence “He hardly recognised the tall lad standing in front of him as the skinny, grubby and malnourished scrap of a boy he’d found on the floor of his Dreaming Room a few months ago.” After Victor climbing down the ladder, it will be a smoother transition. ]
All night while he worked, Crow thought about the glass bottle. He wondered what kind of dream it was; there was no label attached to it. As the night dragged on, the anticipation built within him. When he finally slid into bed shortly after dawn, he picked up the bottle. Before opening it, he hesitated. He knew he would enjoy whatever dream this bottle contained. However lovely the dream was, it could not compare to his waking hours. For the boy who had not dared to hope or dream, every day now was a small miracle.
Crow broke the wax seal and pulled out the stopper. A golden, smoky substance rushed to envelop him in its embrace.
For a second or two nothing happened. Much to his surprise, Crow did not immediately fall asleep as he had imagined that he would. Instead, he felt the strangest tugging sensation, which intensified with every breath he took. He coughed, emitting a small plume of smoke which snaked back towards the empty bottle. With a sigh, he sank back onto the bed as his eyes flickered then closed.
Victor picked up the bottle from the boy’s limp hand and replaced the stopper quickly. It was a shame; he had grown quite fond of the boy. But such a soul to add to his collection! Caught in a moment of happiness, the boy had radiated hope of such intensity that would fill a thousand potent dreams.
The Dreamcatcher took the bottle back to his workroom where he put it down carefully on the bench. He hummed to himself as he unscrewed a bottle of ink, dipped in his pen and wrote out a new label. Opening the small cabinet which contained his precious raw materials he gently placed Hope on the shelf next to Courage and Love.