Lair of Dreams

“What?”


“I’ve been calling you. Did you find something?”

“Nah, just a bunch of dusty books,” Sam lied, surreptitiously tucking the envelope into his trousers pocket.

“Well, unless they’re haunted, they’re not going to help with the exhibit. What’s the matter? You look funny.”

“Oh. It’s, ah, it’s just that I should probably go clean myself up,” Sam said. His heart was pounding. “I hate to leave you like this, Freddy, but I got a date on the radio.”

“Right. Guess you’d better go, then,” Jericho said coolly.

“Listen, Freddy, I could come back a little later—”

“No need. I’ve got it. As usual,” Jericho said, disappearing into the stacks. “And don’t call me Freddy.”





Ling grimaced against the blustery wind as she made her way to the opera house carrying a knapsack with a basket of dumplings for Uncle Eddie. Steam rose from the slatted bamboo top, and she welcomed both the warmth and the delicious smell of fried pork.

The bustling streets of Chinatown were much quieter than usual—the fear of the sleeping sickness kept most people away. Business in the restaurants and shops was down. The hardworking men and women who came in droves for chop suey on their lunch hours were now heading to Automats and diners far from Doyers, Pell, Mott, and Mulberry Streets. Even the bane of the neighborhood—the white tour guides who brought in buses of “slumming” tourists to hear their lurid, deeply embellished tales of Chinatown’s bloody Tong Wars, opium dens, and “slave girls”—were noticeably absent.

The health department had been out testing the water and food; dirt from the streets; dung from the horses, insects, and rodents—anything they thought might give clues as to where the sickness was coming from and how it was transmitted. Ling had even made a special trip to the library to read up on sleeping sicknesses, hoping to find something helpful. She now knew more than she’d wanted to know about parasites, tsetse flies, and encephalitis. None matched what was happening in Chinatown and on the Lower East Side. There were no presenting symptoms, no fevers, aches, or cough.

People simply went to sleep and did not wake up.

The mayor threatened to shut down Chinese New Year festivities, which were only three weeks away. The Chinese Benevolent Association had gone so far as to hire a reporter to take pictures of the “Chinatown Cleaning Crews”: men in masks and gloves scrubbing down the sidewalks and kitchens, dropping off linens at the various laundries—anything to keep New Yorkers’ fears from escalating into panic and keep the Year of the Rabbit celebration on course.

The tourists weren’t the only ones who were worried. Neighbors who’d always been close suddenly became cautious around one another. Before classes at the Chinese school, the teachers made all the students wash their hands, and nurses checked their eyes, mouths, and skin for any hint of infection. The churches and temples were full. The old men and women went by daily to burn incense, make offerings, and ask for their ancestors’ blessing. Charms against bad luck had been positioned near windows and doors to ward off evil spirits. A rumor went around—no one knew how it started—that one of the diggers who’d fallen victim to the sleeping sickness had mentioned something about their crew discovering bones in an old subway station, and that he was anxious about having disturbed them.

“Ghosts,” the old men whispered in back rooms and over cups of tea.

“Ghosts.” The women nodded in the greenmarkets or sitting on benches in Columbus Park.

But Ling’s mind wasn’t on ghosts or sickness just now. Last night, she’d witnessed an incredible transformation. Think of something you want, Wai-Mae had said, as if Ling’s emotional state was the necessary force that made the shoes manifest. Was an energy field created by all the thoughts and desires floating through dreams, and, if so, was it more concentrated in that particular part of the dreamscape? Did a person’s longing or fear or greed, when applied, bend and shape the universe of the dream somehow? And could you do more than transmute one object into another?

Could you will something into existence through your emotions?

Should you?

At the opera house, Uncle Eddie sat on the edge of the stage, putting the finishing touches on a costume.