Lair of Dreams

“Fine. A little tired, though.”


“But you ’member what I told you now, ’bout this being our secret?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you ain’t gonna tell nobody that we practicing till you can show ’em all how good you got?”

“No, sir!” The boy sounded light, happy, like a horse that had finally gotten to run wild.

“Not even your brother.”

A slight pause. “He’s never around, anyway.”

“Don’t you worry—I’m here now, son. Right by your side.”

The boy took his hand as they exited the mausoleum. Bill hugged him close and patted his shoulder just so.

“What say we go get us some ice cream down to Mr. Reggie’s, then?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Now. Tell me: Who’s somethin’ special?”

“I am,” Isaiah said quietly.

“You sure about that, now? Don’t sound so sure,” Bill teased, and this time the boy came back with a resounding “I am! I am!” that startled the birds into squawking flight.

“Lead the way, son.”

One, four, four. Bill would play the number again, see if it came up lucky a second time.

“Mr. Johnson?” Isaiah asked as they left the graveyard, hand in hand, walking toward the center of Harlem against a bracing, biting wind.

“Yes, little man?”

“Who is Guillaume?”





On the bus ride to the Seward Park Library, Ling’s thoughts were on the previous night’s dream walk. She pressed her fingers to the bus windows, feeling the cold glass and thinking of how those same fingers had transformed the dreamscape, shifting its atoms toward something new and full of energy. It had made her aware of the universe she carried inside, of the ways in which she was both wave and particle, always in flux, always changing. It had all been magical, except for that strange moment with the tunnel and Wai-Mae’s warning. Surely, there had to be a scientific explanation for the bursts of light and sound coming from that tunnel, some energy source worth exploring? No ghosts Ling had ever spoken to behaved in that manner.

Mrs. Belpre, the librarian, smiled at Ling when she arrived at the library, asking how Ling had liked the books and recommending others. Ling asked if she knew anything about a matchmaking outfit called O’Bannion and Lee, but Mrs. Belpre shook her head.

“And how is your friend George?” she asked in hushed tones.

“The same,” Ling said.

“I hope he wakes up soon,” Mrs. Belpre said, patting Ling’s hand.

Ling vaguely recalled bits of last night’s dream she’d had about George. Dreams were symbols. Puzzle pieces. For the life of her, she couldn’t quite put this one together yet. There had been something about George in the train station.

The train station. That was curious.

When Ling dream walked, she could read words quite clearly. In actual dreaming, though, she never really could. The words blurred or her mind drifted elsewhere. But last night—yes, she remembered now!—she had been able to read perfectly: BEACH PNEUMATIC TRANSIT COMPANY. On impulse, Ling made her way to the card catalog, flipping through until she came to an entry that excited her. There it was on the card, in black and white: Beach Pneumatic Transit Company.

It was real. Or it had been.

Ling put aside her science books and combed through old newspapers, reading about a place she thought she and Henry had invented, a place that existed only in dreams.




ASTONISHING ACCOMPLISHMENT!

MR. A. E. BEACH AT LAST UNVEILS

PNEUMATIC UNDERGROUND RAILWAY

WITH OPULENT RECEPTION!



Pledges to Extend Line to Central Park



A marvel of modern transport was unveiled this morning deep below the hustle and bustle of New York’s crowded city streets. The Beach Pneumatic Transit Company, constructed by teams of men working day and night and with great secrecy until recently, was introduced to a curious public by its inventor and architect, Mr. Alfred Ely Beach, editor of Scientific American.

For a year, the corner of Warren Street and Broadway, occupied by Devlin’s Clothing Store at Number 260 Broadway, has been the subject of much speculation. Passersby have remarked on the shaking ground, the tunneling equipment, and the piles of dirt left behind the store each night. As of today, the entire thrilling enterprise is speculation no more.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Today we unveil the future of travel beneath these very streets—the Beach Pneumatic Transit Company. See this wonder for yourselves and be amazed,” Mr. Beach crowed to a handsomely furnished waiting room filled with reporters, dignitaries, and city politicians eager for a ride on his underground marvel, which runs the length of Broadway, originating at Warren Street beneath Devlin’s Clothing Store and terminating at Murray Street, traveling a distance of three hundred feet by means of forced air generated by a large fan, though Mr. Beach proposes to build longer tunnels.