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Chapter 3

Morit watched the Visitors board the train car with resentment boiling in his heart. His dark brows drew down over his lined forehead. He leaned over the conductor's arm to get a good look, studying the faces of the strangers. There was nothing special about them. They looked just like people!

"How dare the conductor let them jump ahead in the queue?" he grumbled to his wife. "We have just as much right to board as they do—more! We live here. They're intruders."

"Um-hmm," Blanda hummed, checking over her many bags and parcels. She tapped each of them with a forefinger as if she was making sure everything was there. Morit growled into his beard. Couldn't she see that they were being insulted? But she never did, curse the woman. She smiled up at him, her round, pleasant face aglow. Her fluffy light brown hair was neatly waved and pinned up against the back of her head. Her tweed traveling coat was buttoned up tight over her white ruffled blouse and plain tan skirt.

"It'll be a nice journey, won't it, dear?" she asked, tucking her hand into his elbow. Morit snorted. The conductor lowered his arm and Morit shoved past him up and into the car. Blanda followed a pace or two behind.

"Nice day, isn't it?" she said to the uniformed man. He smiled and tipped his hat to her.

"Yes, mum. Hope you have a pleasant journey."

"Thank you, dear," Blanda said.

Morit growled to himself and stalked ahead. Blanda caught up with him before he reached their reserved seats.

"You shouldn't just ignore people," she said, with gentle reproof in her voice. "It isn't nice."

"What does the conductor care if we have a pleasant journey? It's his job to get us there whether we enjoy it or not!" Morit turned to throw their bags up onto the baggage racks, and found there was no room overhead. Nightmare take it, whose were all of those?

"My mother always said you should treat people as though they were the ones who dreamed you," Blanda recited, as she always did when quoting one of her thousands of relatives, all of whom Morit detested. He cursed under his breath as he surveyed the gloomily appointed car. The Visitors had taken up every rack for yards around their seats with their mess of bags, probably all over the allowable weight. How dare they impinge on everyone else's space? Why were they here at all?

* * *

The inside of the train was as handsome as the outside had been. The walls were covered with silk brocade in a plume and stripe Regency pattern of muted maroon, and the brass sconces gleamed golden against them. The wooden trim around door and window frames was the same deep mahogany. In contrast, the undercloth on the table between the facing seats was bottle green. It all looked very upper-class, right out of an old-fashioned thriller, but welcoming, new, and smelling of starch and furniture polish. Trains must indeed be an important memory to be able to present him with such detail. Chuck was sure he'd never have thought of the bobèche cups around the base of the light bulbs himself, nor the white, lace-edged covers protecting the arms of the seats.

He felt a twinge of resentment as he followed Keir toward their assigned seats. He'd half hoped the other travelers would disappear when they boarded, going off to their own spirit quests with some other guide, leaving him and Keir alone. But no such luck. They were all right behind him. This was worse than his normal life. He wouldn't even have privacy while he traveled. Their rows of seats were in the middle of the car. He was going to have to share his guide and his personal journey with not one, but four total strangers. He hoped he wouldn't have to pour out his innermost thoughts and feelings in front of them, not to mention all the other passengers seated around them. He didn't like having a crowd imposed upon him. At the same time he felt guilty for being so selfish. But how bad was it to want to have just a little attention for himself?

The resentment became an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders that was only partly lessened when he wrestled the huge steamer trunk up into an overhead rack. The storage spaces looked small, but the trunk fit just fine. Chuck reminded himself that he was not in a physical world, for all he could sense, feel, smell, and above all, see it. The other bags he stowed where he could, silently negotiating for room with the two women, who were trying to put their possessions as close as they could to their row. The tall man in tweed and the bearded, middle-aged man, who had one bag apiece, stowed their suitcases underneath their chairs, and were sitting patiently waiting for the others to settle down.

Chuck felt his face getting hot as he tried to find space for the last three briefcases in his arms in the midst of other passengers moving toward their seats. Was the crowd never going to let up? The mob grew thicker and thicker, until he was holding his bags straight up in the air. Thousands of people streamed past him in the aisle, men in baseball caps, women wearing trenchcoats, uniformed schoolchildren, each bumping into his ribs or his knees with their luggage. Where were they coming from? Where were they all going to sit? The train couldn't possibly hold this many people!

"It's just a nuisance," Keir called to him over the heads of the mob. "Ignore it. It will be over soon."

"Over?" Chuck asked. "Where are all these people going?"

"They're not real," Keir said. "Be calm."

As quickly as the deluge of passengers began, it ended, leaving no trace of its passage. Chuck was left standing in the middle of the corridor with his valises held high over his head, back to back with the plump woman. Puzzled, he glanced around, as though the crowd might have slipped out of sight behind one of the seats. The red-haired woman looked as confused as he felt. Briskly assuming the appropriate shape for each, Keir guided them to their seats and took their extra bags from them. He passed along the center aisle, straightening and turning bundles in the racks. An empty spot opened up above Chuck's head. Deftly, Keir tucked the briefcases into the gap. Chuck felt a sense of satisfaction as the things fit as neatly into place as a piece into a jigsaw puzzle. Things were looking up. The brown plush seats, arranged three on each side of the aisle, were comfortable, after all, and he loved train travel.

The bearded man had taken the center seat in the row of three facing the engine. Chuck, who preferred to ride facing forward, had the choice of the aisle or the window. Why couldn't the bearded man have taken either end, and left an empty seat between them? At least each seat had its own pair of wide, padded armrests. They wouldn't have to fight over them. He chose the aisle for the moment. The red-haired woman laid immediate claim to the window seat facing the rear of the train, and the man in tweed sat down next to her, stiffly upright, with his hands placed on his knees. The tall woman in white floated into a forward seat on the other side of the aisle.

In the seat facing Chuck, a plump, round-faced man with wisps of golden hair on his round head wearing a tan business suit offered him a cheerful smile. Across the aisle from him, a sharp-faced man in a blue suit striped with charcoal gray glanced up from a ledger he was reading to offer a friendly nod. The woman beside him, a comfortable-looking, white-haired matron Chuck guessed to be in her seventies twinkled at him over her knitting. Chuck glanced at the mass of wool depending from her needles, but couldn't guess what it would be when it was finished. Beside her, in the pair of seats nearest to the window, a middle-aged married couple had just finished putting their bags away. The man favored Chuck with a curt nod.

"May I have your attention, please?" Keir said, standing between the rows. "I am very pleased to welcome you all. Not many Visitors from the Waking World come to travel the Dreamland in person. I find it most gratifying that the numbers have increased more greatly in the last few years than in centuries. I am pleased you were all able to make it."

"It is good to be here," said the man with the beard. The others, including Chuck, nodded vigorous agreement. The bearded man continued.

"Many millennia ago there used to be far more transit between the worlds, when the sense of consciousness was not as physically centered as it is now. As these tours have recently been reinstated, we may have a few problems that need to be shaken out. I need to ask you to try not to cause complications. Otherwise we may not be able to offer such tours in the future, and that would be a tragedy for everyone. Dream tours are a great service to the Waking World, though I am afraid others feel it is just a burden. It's difficult enough to find yourself, in ideal circumstances." The others chuckled politely.

"My name is Keir, although you should all know that by now. Shall we all go around and introduce ourselves? After all, we will be spending an intense and interesting time together."

"Okay," Chuck said, when no one spoke first. "Hi, all. I'm Chuck Meadows."

"Beddoes?" asked the plump man across from him, in a cultured though not affected voice. "That's a good Dreamish name."

"Er, I'm not from around here," Chuck said. "I'm an American. Say, you're an American, too, aren't you?" he asked the bearded man.

"I don't believe so," said the man with the beard, in his pleasant, unaccented baritone, looking faintly troubled.

"No?" Chuck asked, trying to be helpful. "You sure sound American. Can't you remember where you came from?"

"Celestia," said the plumpish little man with a shining, rosy face, leaning forward to pump Chuck's hand. "Or do you mean specifically? Or just now? The hotel. Very nice. You'd like it. Hope you can stay over a night when we get back."

"This is over one night," Chuck said, very worried. He looked up at Keir. "I . . . haven't lapsed into a coma, have I? I mean, I will wake up."

"No, no," Keir assured him, soothingly. "It's just as you say."

"Oh, yes, time goes very differently where you're from, doesn't it?" said the plump man. "I am Bergold Nestledown. I'm from the Ministry of History in the capital city of Mnemosyne. I'm not in need of Keir's kind of guidance. I'm here as a kind of adjunct of the court, to find out more about you. We want the most accurate information about the Waking World that we can get. It's so nice that you've been able to come here. Did you find the journey difficult?"

"I really don't remember much about it," Chuck began, thinking that he would enjoy being interviewed. "I was in my room, lying on my back . . ." Bergold took a notebook out of his pocket and began to write in it with a pencil. He only seemed to be wiggling the point along the page, but neat words appeared rapidly in neat lines. Bergold was full of questions. Chuck could hardly finish one before he asked another.

"Now, now," Keir said, interrupting them. "You can get more information from him later, Historian." The plump man looked abashed, but he put the notebook away.

"I am sorry. My enthusiasm often blinds me to anything but the object of my focus. I hope you don't mind being objectified."

"No," Chuck said, with a sly look at Keir. "I don't object at all." Bergold laughed. The bearded man smiled, the corners of his mustache turning upward. He extended a hand to Chuck, and delivered a brief but decided handshake. He offered the same to the rest of the group, and sat back without a single wasted movement.

"My name is Hiramus Reston. I am pleased to meet you all."

"Persemid," said the large, red-headed lady, and defensively added, "Smith." She folded her arms defiantly over her broad bosom when Chuck looked skeptical about the "Smith" part. She might be a real smith outside of this state of consciousness. She looked strong enough to bend metal with her bare hands. But why did she dye her hair that astonishing shade of red? Then, he chided himself for a fool. You couldn't dye a dream projection, could you? If Keir was right, either Persemid Smith's personal view of herself or the roots of her soul must have red hair.

"And you, my dear?" the plump man asked the tall woman.

"Pipistrella," she said, bestowing a brilliant, white-toothed smile upon him. The waves and tresses of her long, golden hair swirled gracefully around her like willow branches. She looked like a storybook fairy princess.

"Do you have a last name?" Chuck asked.

"Oh, no," she said, turning huge, astonished, hazel eyes toward him. "I think that anchors you too much in the world, don't you?"

No fear of that, Chuck thought. She'd float away in a high wind. The woman was as natural or cultivated a flake that he ever had met. Look at her, jingling with silver good luck charms and crystals. Chuck considered himself an honest child of nature. He didn't like people who leaned too heavily on crutches like the New Age. In his experience they had no character of their own. Pipistrella gave him no reason to change his opinion.

"Sean Draper," the tweed-suited man blurted out suddenly, as if afraid of being overlooked. Chuck turned toward him. Sean looked frightened, only just not bolting out of the car. "Look, man, this can't be m' mother. She's been dead for ten years. I don't know what's happening here."

"It's all right," Keir said, easing into the comfortable maternal shape again and sitting down on the arm of Sean's chair. "Let's just talk a moment. I'll explain everything."

Chuck frowned and settled back into his chair with his arms crossed. Draper was speaking too low for him to hear, but anyone could see how upset he was. Chuck wondered for a moment what was wrong, then decided it wasn't his concern. He had his own problems! Keir should be helping take care of those.

As if he could hear the mental shout, Keir glanced up. Chuck caught his eye and signalled to him, wanting him to come and talk to him, privately. After all, wasn't that why he was here? Keir held up a forestalling hand and went back to his conversation with Sean. Why couldn't the guy go get his own spirit guide? Chuck felt like sulking, but at that moment, he heard a steam whistle outside. The car lurched and started to move forward. The train was under way.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 3

Morit watched the Visitors board the train car with resentment boiling in his heart. His dark brows drew down over his lined forehead. He leaned over the conductor's arm to get a good look, studying the faces of the strangers. There was nothing special about them. They looked just like people!

"How dare the conductor let them jump ahead in the queue?" he grumbled to his wife. "We have just as much right to board as they do—more! We live here. They're intruders."

"Um-hmm," Blanda hummed, checking over her many bags and parcels. She tapped each of them with a forefinger as if she was making sure everything was there. Morit growled into his beard. Couldn't she see that they were being insulted? But she never did, curse the woman. She smiled up at him, her round, pleasant face aglow. Her fluffy light brown hair was neatly waved and pinned up against the back of her head. Her tweed traveling coat was buttoned up tight over her white ruffled blouse and plain tan skirt.

"It'll be a nice journey, won't it, dear?" she asked, tucking her hand into his elbow. Morit snorted. The conductor lowered his arm and Morit shoved past him up and into the car. Blanda followed a pace or two behind.

"Nice day, isn't it?" she said to the uniformed man. He smiled and tipped his hat to her.

"Yes, mum. Hope you have a pleasant journey."

"Thank you, dear," Blanda said.

Morit growled to himself and stalked ahead. Blanda caught up with him before he reached their reserved seats.

"You shouldn't just ignore people," she said, with gentle reproof in her voice. "It isn't nice."

"What does the conductor care if we have a pleasant journey? It's his job to get us there whether we enjoy it or not!" Morit turned to throw their bags up onto the baggage racks, and found there was no room overhead. Nightmare take it, whose were all of those?

"My mother always said you should treat people as though they were the ones who dreamed you," Blanda recited, as she always did when quoting one of her thousands of relatives, all of whom Morit detested. He cursed under his breath as he surveyed the gloomily appointed car. The Visitors had taken up every rack for yards around their seats with their mess of bags, probably all over the allowable weight. How dare they impinge on everyone else's space? Why were they here at all?

* * *

The inside of the train was as handsome as the outside had been. The walls were covered with silk brocade in a plume and stripe Regency pattern of muted maroon, and the brass sconces gleamed golden against them. The wooden trim around door and window frames was the same deep mahogany. In contrast, the undercloth on the table between the facing seats was bottle green. It all looked very upper-class, right out of an old-fashioned thriller, but welcoming, new, and smelling of starch and furniture polish. Trains must indeed be an important memory to be able to present him with such detail. Chuck was sure he'd never have thought of the bobèche cups around the base of the light bulbs himself, nor the white, lace-edged covers protecting the arms of the seats.

He felt a twinge of resentment as he followed Keir toward their assigned seats. He'd half hoped the other travelers would disappear when they boarded, going off to their own spirit quests with some other guide, leaving him and Keir alone. But no such luck. They were all right behind him. This was worse than his normal life. He wouldn't even have privacy while he traveled. Their rows of seats were in the middle of the car. He was going to have to share his guide and his personal journey with not one, but four total strangers. He hoped he wouldn't have to pour out his innermost thoughts and feelings in front of them, not to mention all the other passengers seated around them. He didn't like having a crowd imposed upon him. At the same time he felt guilty for being so selfish. But how bad was it to want to have just a little attention for himself?

The resentment became an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders that was only partly lessened when he wrestled the huge steamer trunk up into an overhead rack. The storage spaces looked small, but the trunk fit just fine. Chuck reminded himself that he was not in a physical world, for all he could sense, feel, smell, and above all, see it. The other bags he stowed where he could, silently negotiating for room with the two women, who were trying to put their possessions as close as they could to their row. The tall man in tweed and the bearded, middle-aged man, who had one bag apiece, stowed their suitcases underneath their chairs, and were sitting patiently waiting for the others to settle down.

Chuck felt his face getting hot as he tried to find space for the last three briefcases in his arms in the midst of other passengers moving toward their seats. Was the crowd never going to let up? The mob grew thicker and thicker, until he was holding his bags straight up in the air. Thousands of people streamed past him in the aisle, men in baseball caps, women wearing trenchcoats, uniformed schoolchildren, each bumping into his ribs or his knees with their luggage. Where were they coming from? Where were they all going to sit? The train couldn't possibly hold this many people!

"It's just a nuisance," Keir called to him over the heads of the mob. "Ignore it. It will be over soon."

"Over?" Chuck asked. "Where are all these people going?"

"They're not real," Keir said. "Be calm."

As quickly as the deluge of passengers began, it ended, leaving no trace of its passage. Chuck was left standing in the middle of the corridor with his valises held high over his head, back to back with the plump woman. Puzzled, he glanced around, as though the crowd might have slipped out of sight behind one of the seats. The red-haired woman looked as confused as he felt. Briskly assuming the appropriate shape for each, Keir guided them to their seats and took their extra bags from them. He passed along the center aisle, straightening and turning bundles in the racks. An empty spot opened up above Chuck's head. Deftly, Keir tucked the briefcases into the gap. Chuck felt a sense of satisfaction as the things fit as neatly into place as a piece into a jigsaw puzzle. Things were looking up. The brown plush seats, arranged three on each side of the aisle, were comfortable, after all, and he loved train travel.

The bearded man had taken the center seat in the row of three facing the engine. Chuck, who preferred to ride facing forward, had the choice of the aisle or the window. Why couldn't the bearded man have taken either end, and left an empty seat between them? At least each seat had its own pair of wide, padded armrests. They wouldn't have to fight over them. He chose the aisle for the moment. The red-haired woman laid immediate claim to the window seat facing the rear of the train, and the man in tweed sat down next to her, stiffly upright, with his hands placed on his knees. The tall woman in white floated into a forward seat on the other side of the aisle.

In the seat facing Chuck, a plump, round-faced man with wisps of golden hair on his round head wearing a tan business suit offered him a cheerful smile. Across the aisle from him, a sharp-faced man in a blue suit striped with charcoal gray glanced up from a ledger he was reading to offer a friendly nod. The woman beside him, a comfortable-looking, white-haired matron Chuck guessed to be in her seventies twinkled at him over her knitting. Chuck glanced at the mass of wool depending from her needles, but couldn't guess what it would be when it was finished. Beside her, in the pair of seats nearest to the window, a middle-aged married couple had just finished putting their bags away. The man favored Chuck with a curt nod.

"May I have your attention, please?" Keir said, standing between the rows. "I am very pleased to welcome you all. Not many Visitors from the Waking World come to travel the Dreamland in person. I find it most gratifying that the numbers have increased more greatly in the last few years than in centuries. I am pleased you were all able to make it."

"It is good to be here," said the man with the beard. The others, including Chuck, nodded vigorous agreement. The bearded man continued.

"Many millennia ago there used to be far more transit between the worlds, when the sense of consciousness was not as physically centered as it is now. As these tours have recently been reinstated, we may have a few problems that need to be shaken out. I need to ask you to try not to cause complications. Otherwise we may not be able to offer such tours in the future, and that would be a tragedy for everyone. Dream tours are a great service to the Waking World, though I am afraid others feel it is just a burden. It's difficult enough to find yourself, in ideal circumstances." The others chuckled politely.

"My name is Keir, although you should all know that by now. Shall we all go around and introduce ourselves? After all, we will be spending an intense and interesting time together."

"Okay," Chuck said, when no one spoke first. "Hi, all. I'm Chuck Meadows."

"Beddoes?" asked the plump man across from him, in a cultured though not affected voice. "That's a good Dreamish name."

"Er, I'm not from around here," Chuck said. "I'm an American. Say, you're an American, too, aren't you?" he asked the bearded man.

"I don't believe so," said the man with the beard, in his pleasant, unaccented baritone, looking faintly troubled.

"No?" Chuck asked, trying to be helpful. "You sure sound American. Can't you remember where you came from?"

"Celestia," said the plumpish little man with a shining, rosy face, leaning forward to pump Chuck's hand. "Or do you mean specifically? Or just now? The hotel. Very nice. You'd like it. Hope you can stay over a night when we get back."

"This is over one night," Chuck said, very worried. He looked up at Keir. "I . . . haven't lapsed into a coma, have I? I mean, I will wake up."

"No, no," Keir assured him, soothingly. "It's just as you say."

"Oh, yes, time goes very differently where you're from, doesn't it?" said the plump man. "I am Bergold Nestledown. I'm from the Ministry of History in the capital city of Mnemosyne. I'm not in need of Keir's kind of guidance. I'm here as a kind of adjunct of the court, to find out more about you. We want the most accurate information about the Waking World that we can get. It's so nice that you've been able to come here. Did you find the journey difficult?"

"I really don't remember much about it," Chuck began, thinking that he would enjoy being interviewed. "I was in my room, lying on my back . . ." Bergold took a notebook out of his pocket and began to write in it with a pencil. He only seemed to be wiggling the point along the page, but neat words appeared rapidly in neat lines. Bergold was full of questions. Chuck could hardly finish one before he asked another.

"Now, now," Keir said, interrupting them. "You can get more information from him later, Historian." The plump man looked abashed, but he put the notebook away.

"I am sorry. My enthusiasm often blinds me to anything but the object of my focus. I hope you don't mind being objectified."

"No," Chuck said, with a sly look at Keir. "I don't object at all." Bergold laughed. The bearded man smiled, the corners of his mustache turning upward. He extended a hand to Chuck, and delivered a brief but decided handshake. He offered the same to the rest of the group, and sat back without a single wasted movement.

"My name is Hiramus Reston. I am pleased to meet you all."

"Persemid," said the large, red-headed lady, and defensively added, "Smith." She folded her arms defiantly over her broad bosom when Chuck looked skeptical about the "Smith" part. She might be a real smith outside of this state of consciousness. She looked strong enough to bend metal with her bare hands. But why did she dye her hair that astonishing shade of red? Then, he chided himself for a fool. You couldn't dye a dream projection, could you? If Keir was right, either Persemid Smith's personal view of herself or the roots of her soul must have red hair.

"And you, my dear?" the plump man asked the tall woman.

"Pipistrella," she said, bestowing a brilliant, white-toothed smile upon him. The waves and tresses of her long, golden hair swirled gracefully around her like willow branches. She looked like a storybook fairy princess.

"Do you have a last name?" Chuck asked.

"Oh, no," she said, turning huge, astonished, hazel eyes toward him. "I think that anchors you too much in the world, don't you?"

No fear of that, Chuck thought. She'd float away in a high wind. The woman was as natural or cultivated a flake that he ever had met. Look at her, jingling with silver good luck charms and crystals. Chuck considered himself an honest child of nature. He didn't like people who leaned too heavily on crutches like the New Age. In his experience they had no character of their own. Pipistrella gave him no reason to change his opinion.

"Sean Draper," the tweed-suited man blurted out suddenly, as if afraid of being overlooked. Chuck turned toward him. Sean looked frightened, only just not bolting out of the car. "Look, man, this can't be m' mother. She's been dead for ten years. I don't know what's happening here."

"It's all right," Keir said, easing into the comfortable maternal shape again and sitting down on the arm of Sean's chair. "Let's just talk a moment. I'll explain everything."

Chuck frowned and settled back into his chair with his arms crossed. Draper was speaking too low for him to hear, but anyone could see how upset he was. Chuck wondered for a moment what was wrong, then decided it wasn't his concern. He had his own problems! Keir should be helping take care of those.

As if he could hear the mental shout, Keir glanced up. Chuck caught his eye and signalled to him, wanting him to come and talk to him, privately. After all, wasn't that why he was here? Keir held up a forestalling hand and went back to his conversation with Sean. Why couldn't the guy go get his own spirit guide? Chuck felt like sulking, but at that moment, he heard a steam whistle outside. The car lurched and started to move forward. The train was under way.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed