I’m barely three feet from safety when the bear makes a move. I catch sight of its lumbering shape out of the corner of my eye and, forgetting to breathe, I rush forward. The bear is too fast: one massive paw swipes at my head. I duck but the bear’s claws rake across my cheek. I yelp in pain and try to leap for the bank while the bear charges again. Before it can connect this time, something flies through the air, knocking it on the side of its head.
I clamber up out of the river. The kid, who is still on the other side of the bank, picks up another stone and throws it. The bear roars angrily.
‘Yeah?’ the boy shouts. ‘Come on then!’
I back away, trying to keep my grip on the squirming puppy. I grab a fish with my free hand and toss it. The bear grabs it, throwing me a malevolent glare. Then it vanishes. The kid jumps up and down, cheering.
‘Thank you!’ I shout and he gives me a bow.
‘Sometimes a stick is more effective than a carrot,’ I mutter as I feel myself being dragged away yet again.
I’m at a ball. Everywhere I look, there are couples dancing although there doesn’t appear to be any music. The women are wearing huge ball gowns in every colour of the rainbow with tiny bodices and vast billowing skirts; the men are in tuxedos. I dart in between them, searching for the florist. It doesn’t matter how many people I bump into, they all keep the same fixed smiles on their faces and continue waltzing.
I’ve almost made a circuit of the room when the couples suddenly freeze and then slowly turn. Nobody speaks and there’s no sound, but all their faces are pictures of shock and admiration. I follow their eyes. At the far end, next to a large staircase, stands the florist. Her gown is more dramatic and more beautiful than anyone else’s; it shimmers and, when she finally starts to move, makes her look as if she is gliding.
A good-looking man appears, strides to the foot of the stairs and holds out his arm. The florist takes it and he sweeps her onto the floor. The other couples start dancing again but this time there’s a spotlight on the florist and her beau. She looks happy and relaxed and I realise there’s nothing about this dream that I want to change – until another man steps in front of them and pulls her away.
The florist obviously doesn’t want to go and her eyes search desperately for escape. The second man doesn’t want to give her up, though, and grabs her time and time again. I purse my lips and watch them, finally realising what’s going on. Somehow, I don’t think this is a problem I can solve here. I need to see both her and her colleague in person.
‘I want to leave now,’ I mutter. I don’t want to wake up – I still have one more dream to go – so I don’t want to do the same as when I last left the Dreamlands. I need to try something else.
I weave in and out of the couples until I reach the florist. The second man is still trailing after her but I’m getting annoyed by him so I block his body, reach out for her arm and pinch her skin. She frowns. I try again but achieve much the same effect.
Biting my lip nervously, I look in her eyes. ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ I tell her and kick her in the stomach. I would have gone for her shin but the meringue-like ball gown would have stopped me connecting with her body. I know I’ve not done her any real damage – she’s not a Traveller – but as I’m tugged backwards and out of her dream, I still feel like a shit.
Part of me is expecting the final dream to be like the supermarket kid’s –a replica of what I’ve already experienced. It is similar, but it’s definitely not identical. Instead of being trapped in rank, thick fog, I’m in a maze. I can hear shouts for help but, thanks to the high hedges that tower all around me, I can’t see what’s going on.
I try jumping up to get a better look but it’s pointless. I’ll just have to solve the maze to save him.
I start at a jog. It’s a tiring business being dragged from dream to dream and I’m anxious to finish up, but I’m determined to find Mr MailQuick first. I vaguely remember once being told that the way to solve a maze is to continually turn left. I do just that as I come to the first junction. When I reach the second alley and follow it to a dead end, I go back and re-trace my steps, turning left again. I continue in this fashion for some time, until my feet are dragging. I curse aloud. Perhaps because this is a dream maze it doesn’t work in the same way as a real maze. I certainly don’t seem to be getting anywhere.
I wonder how hard it would be to make a gap in the hedge and squeeze through. I shove my shoulder into the thick foliage but I barely penetrate a few inches. But I’m a dreamweaver. The hedge isn’t real so in theory I can make it open up through my will.
I step back and point at it. ‘Open sesame!’ Nothing happens. I imagine myself as Moses parting the Red Sea and gesture with both hands. ‘Part!’ Still nothing happens. ‘Abracadabra?’
‘Now what are you doing?’
I almost fall over. You have got to be kidding me. I turn round and see Dante, his head half-cocked, a dark curl falling across his brow. He looks puzzled.
‘How did you get here?’ I ask angrily.
He shrugs. ‘I’m a tracker. When you didn’t show up in the Dreamlands, I got worried so I tracked you.’