Dreamhunter (13 page)

The offices of the Secretary of the Interior, pressed for space, had reclaimed the attics of the Palace of Governance, a building which, in former days, had been one of Founderston’s grand residences. The attics had been servants’ quarters, and narrow back stairs still ran all the way down from top to bottom of the four corners of the building. The stair on the east corner was enclosed for all its length, and the doors on every floor were fastened by locks, and by several coats of paint. At its foot this back stair opened on an alley beside one of Founderston’s brackish storm drains. At its top the staircase ended in a plain, panelled door. On the far side of that door was the office of the Secretary of the Interior, Cas Doran.

Doran’s large, low-roofed room had two old oval windows, whose solid frames bulged above and below
the window glass like swollen eyelids. Through the windows Doran’s visitors could appreciate keyhole views of the tower of the Dream Regulatory Body — one of Secretary Doran’s most tightly controlled departments.

Doran sat with his back to his view. It was his visitors who should be reminded that they were looking out at his domain. Those visitors whose appointments the Secretary scheduled for the early morning also could hardly fail to notice how Doran’s windows focused the low sun into his room like a burning glass.

Secretary Doran was an early riser. The people in his outer office were early risers too, because of the pressure of his expectations. They knew that the Secretary always asked certain people to come early. People he wished to catch on the hop.

It was just after seven when Dr Wilmot arrived in Doran’s outer office. The doctor was still pink from his bath. His hair was so freshly and heavily oiled that its scent was causing his eyes to water, so that he had several times to pop his monocle out of his sweaty eye socket and polish it. Wilmot was on time, but had to wait. He polished his monocle so often that it was smeared with cloudy iridescence.

The musical tinkle of a bell by Doran’s door signalled that the Secretary was ready for his next — or, Wilmot hoped, his
first —
appointment of the day.

The doctor was shown into Doran’s office.

The Secretary of the Interior did not get up from behind his desk. It was a desk like an altar stone, as
heavy as carved masonry, but made of some tropical hardwood. Doran had one paper on this slick, dark desktop. Wilmot recognised his own letterhead.

‘Good of you to come,’ said Doran, and gestured at a chair.

Wilmot took a seat. The chair was comfortable, but from this angle Doran was now only a silhouette against light striking up from the zinc roof of the assembly rooms one floor below.

‘This death certificate …’ Doran began.

‘Esteemed Secretary …’ said the doctor.

Doran raised a hand. The doctor fell silent.

‘A certificate signed by one Dr Grove — you mention it in your letter.’

Dr Wilmot had not
mentioned
the death certificate in his letter — the death certificate was the
whole subject
of his letter. Wilmot said, ‘Dr Grove is the consulting physician at Magdalene Charity Hospital in Westport.’

‘You have written that here,’ said Doran.

‘Secretary, indeed. It is all there, I believe. I have seen the certificate. I have a copy of it in my private records. I thought that was best. I was sure that was what you would want. The
substance
of Grove’s findings are in my letter, Secretary.’

Doran read out, ‘Tziga Hame expired on 10 March this year, as the result of injuries to his skull sustained in the Westport railway yards on 2 March. That is the substance?’

‘That is what Dr Grove’s certificate says. And, from my own examination of Hame directly after his fall, it is
the result I expected. Though he did last a little longer than I thought he would.’

‘He
lasted —
while you returned to your practice.’

‘There was nothing to be done for the man. My further attendance on him would have been conspicuous.’

The doctor could have sworn that he felt Doran’s gaze, the Secretary’s eyes, shifting from item to item of his clothes, appraising him. Dr Wilmot was dressed as a successful man should be — a successful man who also prided himself on being something of a
character
, an
identity
at the resort in Sisters Beach. The doctor flushed. He said, ‘Hame was best left where he was, an anonymous beneficiary of the tender care of the good sisters. I’m sure you agree.’

‘Yes, I do agree,’ Doran said.

Wilmot sagged with relief.

‘However,’ said Doran, ‘your letter, while reassuring in many respects, lacks some vital information.’

‘Sir, how can I help you?’

‘I don’t want your bedside manner, Wilmot. I want intelligent compliance with my needs.’

Wilmot swallowed, and waited.

Doran gave a small sigh. ‘I have a letter about a certificate. You have the certificate in your private files. But, tell me, Doctor, does Hame have a grave?’

The blood left Dr Wilmot’s head so swiftly that his bald spot grew chilly.

‘This distresses me,’ Doran said. ‘I dislike having to apply for this sort of information myself, but I have
done so and can tell you that your discreet Groves and the sisters at Magdalene Charity cannot tell me what was done with the man’s remains.’

Wilmot opened his mouth, but could think of nothing to say. His jaw was trembling with tension. His open mouth made popping noises.

‘You silly fish,’ said Doran. He sounded like a parent at the end of his patience and about to resort to disciplinary measures. He crumpled the letter in his hands. ‘You can be in Westport in three hours if you take the next train.’

Doctor Wilmot got up and left the Secretary’s office.

IN THE EVENING
Cas Doran’s oval windows opened on to a dark blue late autumn dusk in which only a few lights showed, attic windows in the roofs of the Isle’s hotels and dream parlours, and the beacon on the top of the tower of the Regulatory Body.

Doran and his friend were sitting in easy chairs at a fireplace on the far side of the room. They were enjoying a glass of wine.

‘How is your Mr Gregg?’ Maze Plasir asked his friend.

John Gregg was the new Speaker of the House of Representatives. Various people, including the President of the Republic, would have been alarmed to hear Gregg referred to as
Cas Doran’s
Mr Gregg.

‘Highly satisfactory.’ Cas Doran mused for a moment, then he asked, ‘How do you do it, Maze?’

‘You don’t want me to answer that. The less you know the better, probably.’

‘I’d like to know.’

Maze looked into the fire. ‘It’s more difficult to do than it is to explain. So — briefly — the process. Your latest request was that anyone with any influence should favour Mr Gregg for the job of Speaker of the House. You wanted people to imagine that, for some time, they’d had a good opinion of him?’

Cas leant forward.

‘First I caught Admirable Man. Then I grafted Mr Gregg’s face and voice and gestures on to the subject of the dream. I let the dream degrade a little over several nights. Then I loaded what was left of it — its strongest emotions and impressions — into my apprentice. My apprentice attended performances at dream palaces: the Beholder and the Rainbow Opera. He was induced to go into his trance once the patrons of the palace had retired, and he insinuated a few ideas and impressions into them when they were on the verge of sleep. He cast his colour out on the shock wave of Grace Tiebold’s big penumbra. He caught all the right people. And a week later Gregg won his appointment.’

Doran raised his glass to Plasir. ‘You make it sound very matter of fact.’

Maze shook his head. ‘It isn’t. And I’m afraid I’ll be unable to colour any more of the public’s opinions for the next while. My apprentice has had a breakdown.
They do. But I have found a suitable replacement. The last Try turned up an excellent child.’

‘And what is it that makes this child so excellent?’

‘He’s very impressionable. I am letting him in on mysteries — my most delicious dreams, and certain “mental disciplines”. He laps it all up.’

Doran refilled Plasir’s glass. ‘When will he be ready? I’d like to think that, if I find myself in need of some good propaganda, all options are available to me.’

‘The colouring of dreams has limited use as propaganda. Did you see the papers this evening?’ Maze asked.

‘What in particular?’

‘The Temple claims to have ten thousand pledge-takers.’ Maze sat up straight and put his hand over his heart. He quoted, ‘“I swear I will not partake of dreams …” Cas, we can’t colour the opinions of people who won’t sleep with a dreamer.’

They were quiet for a time. A log in the fire fell apart. The flames covered its coals in a blue and orange membrane, and they tinkled like breaking wires.

‘I’d like to know what your plans are, Cas. If I know more I can think about what dreams to catch and how to alter them to suit your purposes.’

‘My plans, as far as they concern you and your new boy, involve a series of adjustments in the attitude of the general public.’ Doran mused for a time. Then he said, ‘It’s impossible to have an effective government when it is constantly checked by a very poorly drafted
Constitution. For instance, my projects would benefit greatly from a longer term in office.’

‘I see.’

‘Maze, we are a country that has always found reasons to congratulate itself. Material reasons — our production of wheat and beef, iron and coal. And
moral
reasons — our tradition of democracy. Now, I’m a patriot. Any patriot has sometimes to think like a farmer — a farmer who takes out his gun to kill a wolf, and who builds a fence around his water supply.’

Plasir said, ‘I’m not sure who the wolves are, Cas. Though I think I’m getting your drift about the water. I guess you’re talking about Shackle Island and its copper mines. I read the editorial your friend wrote, about the islanders’ greed and our needs.’

‘There’s no copper on the mainland,’ Cas Doran said. He leant forward, excited. ‘When we were using it only to make things like warming pans and carriage lamps, its cost wasn’t a problem.’ He pointed at the light fitting above his head. ‘Now we have countless vital uses for that flexible, conductive metal.’

Plasir nodded. ‘And it’s easier to present arguments for an invasion to people who have been somehow prepared to hear them.’

‘I don’t like that word “invasion”. If the islanders all had a share in the mines’ huge profits, things would be very different. But they don’t. No — our need is making only a few of them rich. The inequalities on Shackle Island are unjust, and offensive to any decent society.’

‘Cas, you’re a visionary.’

Cas Doran cast his eyes down. ‘No, just a practical man who is prepared to think about the future.’ He turned his hands palm up, seemed to examine them for stains. He said, ‘I have plenty of work for you, Maze. I have big plans. But, things aren’t going as smoothly as they should.’

‘Hmmm?’ Plasir made an encouraging noise.

Cas Doran looked up at his friend. ‘Tziga Hame has no grave. The man was a meteor and no one can show me where he fell.’

It was late at night, and the house was quiet. The only sound was from the river — a barge passing under the echoing arches of the nearest bridge.

Grace and Chorley were in bed, clinging together for comfort. They were talking, softly, trying to refine their plans.

Chorley said, ‘I have to make the Director think that if he lets me have my way I won’t be any bother to him in the future.’

Grace said, ‘And he has to imagine that if Laura isn’t licensed and goes back to school she’ll never bother the Body again either.’

‘If only Laura
wanted
to go back to school,’ Chorley said. ‘She’s developed her taste for dreamhunting rather quickly, hasn’t she?’

‘She knows she’s good at it. Talent has its own needs, you know.’

‘So I’ve been told. And I’ve been told that God is in Heaven, and that Jesus died for my sins.’ Chorley gave a rude, sceptical grunt.

Grace ignored this. She said, ‘There is one thing we can do to make Laura
want
to go back to school. But it’s hard on Rose.’

‘Rose is resilient.’

‘Yes, she is. She’s probably tougher than all of us put together. My thought is this — we could send Rose away, have her board at the Academy, get her out of the house so that Laura hardly ever gets to see her. We can put Rose in as a boarder for a term, but tell her it’s for an “indefinite period”.’

‘That is hard.’

‘Yes. Hard on me too, Chorley. Rose will think I’ve lost interest in her since she isn’t a dreamhunter.’

Chorley nodded. His chin brushed his wife’s hair. They were quiet for a time, then Grace said, ‘I don’t want to sleep. I still have bits of my raggedy mess of dreams. I think I’d better get up and read, then go to bed once you and the girls are awake.’

‘Is Laura expected to go In again soon?’

‘No. The Body is making its deliberations. Its decision. And Laura is in mourning, of course.’

‘
He’s not dead
,’ Chorley said, suddenly. ‘He
can’t
be dead.’ Grace heard his jaw make a pneumatic creak as he clenched his teeth. Other than that he was motionless —
but she could still feel turmoil in his body, his anger, and fear, and suppressed sorrow.

‘We could send Laura to her Aunt Marta’s for a day or two,’ Grace said. ‘She should see Marta. And with Laura gone we can tackle Rose and have her off to school before Laura gets back.’

‘All right,’ Chorley said. ‘I’ll put Laura on the train tomorrow.’

‘When I’m asleep,’ Grace said. ‘Sorry, Chorley, I know how it’s been — Tziga and me out at all hours and sleeping when you were awake. Awake and on top of things while we were out of our heads, or full of nonsense. Sorry — I’m saying sorry.’

Chorley sighed. ‘When Tziga was courting Verity I used to call him “my sister’s creepy suitor”. He was the first dreamhunter I ever met. I never went to dreams. Tziga was this black-eyed, limping, spooky man who managed always to be
there
, watching my friends and me as though we were a pack of happy dogs — which we were. I never knew what he was thinking, but, at the time, I thought he saw us all as shallow and simple. But, the strange thing was that, as time went by, I got to like being rubbed up the wrong way. I liked to feel that he was judging me, because I liked his attention. I’d say to Verity and my friends, “I suppose that damned Hame will be there as usual”, but I’d wanted him to be there.’ Chorley made a choking sound, then added, ‘I want him to be
here
.’

‘I know,’ said Grace, and put up her hand to stroke his hair. ‘I know.’

WHEN ROSE’S FATHER
told her that she was being sent away to board at Founderston Girls’ Academy she didn’t react at first. She was quiet because she was wondering why her Da looked as though he was steeling himself for an ordeal. Did he expect her to explode? He certainly looked set to endure shouting, accusations, tears — all kinds of girlish unpleasantness.

Because she didn’t immediately react to what he’d said, Rose had a chance to reflect. Why would her mother and father want to send her away? Her father was transparently distressed. Was this only her mother’s idea? Was her mother really
that
disappointed in the result of her Try? Would her father let her mother act on disappointment? Rose thought, ‘They want to protect me from something. Or I’m somehow in the way of their concentrating on Laura. But
I
can look after Laura better than anyone can.’

‘So —’ said Chorley, ‘that is acceptable to you?’

‘Are you holding your breath?’ Rose said. ‘Do you think I’m going to start shouting at you?’

‘You’re being very mature, Rose. It’s admirable.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Rose said.

‘It suits us.’

‘That’s the most cold-blooded thing you’ve ever said to me, Da.’

Rose watched the colour leaving her father’s face. She watched him control himself — not his temper, but
perhaps his desire to confide in her. She said, ‘Why don’t you just tell me?’

‘We don’t have to explain ourselves. All you need to know is that, at the moment, it
suits
us to have you board at the Academy. For goodness’ sake, Rose, when you were younger you girls used to ask to board. You thought it would be fun.’

‘I remember,’ said Rose. ‘And what about Laura? What’s Laura going to do when she comes home and finds me gone?’

‘That’s our concern. You’re just going to have to trust our judgment.’

Rose shook her head. ‘Uncle Tziga set out to walk across the Place and you expect me to trust your judgment?’

‘Act as though you do, then. Don’t give us any trouble.’ Chorley took a step away from the library fireplace, a step towards her. He put out his hand, but didn’t touch her. ‘You’re behaving admirably, darling, and I appreciate it.’

‘A gold star for Rose,’ said Rose.

CHORLEY CALLED ON
the Director of the Regulatory Body.

When Chorley arrived the Director got up from behind his desk, came around it and took Chorley’s hand in both of his and gripped it with great solemnity. ‘I’m terribly sorry about Mr Hame,’ he said.

‘Thank you. I did get your letter of condolence.’

The Director took a chair opposite Chorley, out from behind the barrier of his desk. He crossed his legs
and twitched the crease in his pin-striped trousers till it sat in the centre of his knee. ‘How can I help you, Mr Tiebold?’

‘I’ll get straight to the point. I would like the Body to refuse Laura her licence. I understand that you do have reservations about her suitability as a dreamhunter.’

The Director pursed his lips and inclined his head. ‘We do feel it would be wrong to let her out on her own too soon. Her ability is so very far ahead of her maturity. We have concerns for her safety, and her mental health. We are also obliged by law to protect the public.
However
, our lengthy deliberation about Miss Hame does not reflect our sense of her worth as a dreamhunter, or our desire to help her take up the life. We’d just like to set her on the right path.’

‘I’d like to see her go back to school,’ Chorley said.

The Director covered his mouth. He smoothed his moustache. From behind his hand he said, ‘There are problems with that. You are aware, I hope, that in giving your consent to your niece’s Try you have consented to the examination process? And that, once her licence is issued, you and your wife are no longer her guardians? That, in effect, the Body is her guardian till she comes of age? The law was intended to protect young dreamhunters from family ambition. Each dreamhunter represents so much potential earning power, and they come from all walks of life, including families who are not at all accustomed to managing wealth.’

‘Yes, I understand all that. But my request is very different. The Body doesn’t need to protect Laura from my desire to exploit her. I’ve no ambitions for her. I only want her to be safe.’ Chorley leant forward. ‘Laura is the only child of my only sister. Her father has come to harm. I have always had my reservations about my niece and daughter Trying.
Always
. But it was their wish to Try. And it was Grace’s wish. Grace doesn’t know I’m here, making this request. This is between you and me.’ Chorley leant further forward and took the Director’s hand. ‘Sometimes sentiment is more important than the law. I cannot bear to give Laura up to the madness that has swallowed her father.’

The Director’s eyes flashed with appetite and interest. ‘Do you think that Mr Hame went mad?’

Chorley lowered his eyes. He tried to seem stricken. He hoped that the Director would swallow his act. ‘Yes,’ he said, hushed, ‘I’m terribly afraid for Laura.’

‘I see. But, Mr Tiebold, what is your wife’s opinion?’

Chorley frowned. ‘My wife is not Laura’s blood-relative. If it comes to a confrontation between us about Laura’s future I have the greater right. However, I don’t want to openly oppose my wife’s wishes. That’s why I’ve come to you. I’m very happy to reimburse the Body for the trouble it has taken with Laura.’

‘Are you asking me if you can
buy
the Body’s refusal?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Miss Hame could return to her studies, but she isn’t the same person she was before she caught her first
dream. She won’t be able to sleep near another, loaded, dreamhunter without amplifying their dream. She will have to be very careful, all her life.’

‘Yes, I know.’

The men studied each other. One was imagining that his wish would be granted, and the other was thinking, happily, of how many
other
people would believe that Tziga Hame had been insane at the time of his disappearance.

The Director got up. He made a circle of one arm and invited Chorley to stand up into it. He gripped Chorley’s shoulders and squeezed gently. ‘Leave this in my hands,’ he said.

Chorley thanked him and went home to wait for Grace.

‘
THIS MIGHT WORK
,’ Grace said. ‘Laura has never been strong on initiative. If someone decides things for her she’ll simply accept it. With a few tears.’

‘I’m prepared for tears. And I’m sure she’d really rather be with Rose,’ Chorley said.

‘I’m glad the Director was so receptive. I don’t think I could have staged a public quarrel with you, dear. And I’m sure it would be bad for Laura to think we’d quarrelled over her.’

‘I hope we haven’t over-reacted. I hope we’re doing the right thing.’

‘Me too.’

FOUR DAYS LATER
, when Chorley and Grace were sitting quietly, holding hands across the gate-leg table in the sunny bow window of their library, Laura burst into the room. Her eyes were puffy from days of crying, but she was smiling. Around her neck, flashing and clanking faintly, hung the fresh copper tags of a dreamhunter’s licence. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘they let me pass!’ Then, ‘Where’s Rose?’