The way to the Meditation Gardens was along a lovely path made of crushed pearls and lined with golden bamboo and green lianas so silken Chuck kept reaching out to run his fingers along them. He was glad to get off the train for a while. He wasn't used to sitting still for so long except when meditating. Once again, he was saddled with his unwanted baggage. Keir had helped him load it all onto his shoulders like a giant backpack. Chuck couldn't tell if it was his imagination playing a trick on him, but the trunk and cases felt slightly lighter than they had when he had arrived.
It was difficult to see anything through the thick tropical undergrowth. From time to time, when Chuck lost his certainty that he was going in the right direction, bejeweled signs appeared along the way to reassure him. The air was thick and moist, giving him the sensation that he was wading underwater again. He reached out to wipe the area around his face, hoping to make it easier to breathe. The air rounded into his hand like a mass of modeling clay. He stopped short, almost making Persemid, immediately behind, run into him.
"Hey!" she protested, her bags clattering on her back.
"Look at this!" Chuck said, maneuvering carefully to turn around. He held out his hand, squeezing and manipulating the substance in it. It was squishy but not gooey, like putty, although warmer and smoother.
"I can't see anything," Persemid told him. "Your hand is empty."
"No, it's not. I've got a handful of air."
"Yes. So?"
"It's neat," he said. Persemid snorted.
Chuck paid her no attention. He was fascinated by the way the mass in his hands could be formed, then rolled out and re-formed again. He still couldn't see it, but his fingertips and palms assured him he held something real.
"You have nothing there," Persemid insisted.
"Yes! See what it feels like," he said, pushing it at her. She jerked her hands away, but he managed to make her take it. Her eyes widened as her hand closed around it.
"How strange." She played with the invisible mass for a moment, then hurried to pick up another piece of the landscape. It detached from the rest like a piece of cake. "The whole place is mutable."
"I guess it is," Chuck said. He grabbed a chunk of ground, of gate, of vine leaf. All of them were as malleable as the handful of air. He molded them together into a mass like an agate marble, clear in spots but blended with streaks of blue, green, gold and brown. It looked very pretty as he spun it in the air, watching the colors whirl. Only part of his mind told him he was doing anything out of the ordinary, combining air with solid objects. The rest of him was beginning to find it natural. He was struck with a wild inspiration. If dreamstuff was so malleable, what about . . . him? He plucked a fingerful of flesh from the back of his hand. Just like the vines and gravel, it softened and rolled like modeling clay. He, or his body here, was made of the same stuff.
"Look at that," he told the others. He flattened out the bit of flesh. It had left a gap through which he could briefly see red veins and white bones, but the hole quickly filled in and leveled off, like a sand pit in the beach. Chuck worried about what to do with the extra piece. He didn't want to be diminished, and he didn't feel right about just throwing it away. Playfully, he made a cylinder out of it and stuck it on the outer edge of his hand. Six fingers! As if following his thoughts, the piece became more defined, with knuckles and a nail. If six, why not ten? All the fingers on that hand divided in two. He made a fist. It looked like a row of piano keys. He could alter himself.
"How come I couldn't do that before?" he demanded of Keir. The guide tilted his head sideways.
"Because you wouldn't. You were afraid to change. That's a shame. The more you change, the faster you learn who it is you really are."
Chuck wasn't sure he wanted to have that knowledge thrust upon him too quickly, especially if it was bad news. It would be more comfortable to have it revealed in stages. No one liked having his worst fears confirmed. While he was not thinking about it, his hand slowly shifted back to its original configuration. Chuck wasn't sorry. It was comforting that the Dreamland fixed his mistakes. In future, he hoped to become more proficient with influence, so there wouldn't be errors to correct. On the other hand, experimenting was kind of fun. He put an extra bend in his wrist, enabling him to scratch his elbow. He chuckled, then noticed everyone was looking at him.
"I know it doesn't mean anything more than playing with inert matter," he said cautiously.
"Oh, stop! Why do you care so much about what other people think of you?" Persemid asked sharply. Chuck almost let out a sour retort, then dismissed her complaint as rhetorical. Besides, confound it, she was right. She started walking determinedly toward the Meditation Gardens. Chuck shouldered his bags and trudged after her.
As he caught up, he saw her making some kind of mystical-looking passes with her hands. She turned away when she noticed him watching, then gave up trying to conceal her face. Chuck hid a smile: she was doing the same thing he had just been. He noticed her eyes were larger, and her chin now came to a sharp point. Her skin changed from coffee-colored to chablis to peaches and cream. Otherwise, she looked pretty much the same.
"Darn it," she said. "I can't seem to do a thing with this body. Pretty much the same story as at home."
"You are a little more attached to your base shape," said Bergold, coming up on them from behind. "As am I. I am told it means we have strong self-images. We can change, but it takes concentration. I tend toward shortness and roundness."
"That's me," Persemid said, daring Chuck with her eyes to say anything rude. He dropped back a pace or two behind her and Bergold to think.
It wasn't really true what Keir had said, was it? Was he really afraid to open himself up to change, and find out the truth? Well, he wasn't going to know until he tried. Think thin, he ordered his body. Go on! He felt a lump of fear in his midsection, and started to tremble so violently that leaves fell off the trees nearby. He was glad neither Persemid nor Keir were watching. Thankfully, the others were deep in their own thoughts. Come on. If I don't like it, I can stop any time, Chuck tried to convince himself, but he knew it wasn't true.
Be tall! he ordered himself, without giving himself time to think further. His ribcage closed in so quickly it squeezed the breath out of him. He found himself looming over the others on stilt-thin legs. His gait was unsteady. Playing around with his own shape made him nervous. He wished there was someone to ask if it was really all right. Well, Keir had been at pains to convince Sean it was all right to manipulate dreamstuff, and his present "body" was all dreamstuff. So, could he rationalize it? He snorted. He just had. He could do anything he wanted.
Okay, let's be compact! Whoosh! The shape that resulted made him Bergold's twin brother, plump arms and legs and a little round belly that pushed against his shirt buttons.
The fun of it was that it felt dangerous, like walking on top of a fence rail. Chuck got the hang of visualizing the image of his body in his mind, and making it change. He tried to make himself alter every other step, but having to deal with the logistics of continually new arms and new legs made his head spin.
The others were getting too far ahead. Letting go of controlling his shape in favor of speed, he hurried up to walk beside Bergold.
"It's very changeable out here today," said the Historian. "When winds of change blow through, you shift shape whether you want to or not. You've allowed yourselves to be influenced, already. Once you start, it's hard to stop. I don't even try. Really, I rather like it."
They crossed an open area where the rolling of the ground like sea swell made Chuck steel himself for another slap of influence from the unseen Sleepers. Wave after wave of influence blew through like strong winds, carrying change in every flutter. Fighting his natural tendencies toward self-preservation, Chuck forced himself to remain open to the sensation. He was scared, but reminded himself it was natural here. Everyone did it. Bergold shifted over and over again like a slide show—ballerina, clown, diplomat, dog, fireman, lawn mower—and seemed very happy about it. Persemid glanced at Chuck and let out one of her snorting laughs.
"You look like Abraham Lincoln." He glanced down at himself. Yup, there were the stovepipe pants and long frock coat. He felt a beard on his chin. Persemid was even more altered, a fussy figure in black silk and white lace.
"You look like Queen Victoria," he said, just as another wave of influence overtook him.
"You're a mailbox."
"You're a lamppost," Chuck creaked, his lower jaw turned into a broad flap. The head of the long cast-iron pole bent over to see herself.
"Ha! Wouldn't you know? The first time in my life I'm really skinny, and I have iron britches!"
"But, it's just a game," Chuck said dismissively, determined not to be seen as frivolous again. He forced himself to think himself a human being again, and was relieved when arms and legs, clad in cloth garments, took the place of metal plates. He waved a casual hand. "Unreality. It doesn't mean a thing."
"Get over it," said Persemid impatiently, swelling into lush flesh as she reasserted her humanity. "Don't you dare spoil today for the rest of us."
"Me, spoil things for you?" Chuck fell silent, realizing he was bickering like a child. He just couldn't keep up with such secure people. "I'm sorry. I'll try not to."
"Oh, for Pete's sake don't roll over and show your throat," Persemid growled. "Show some backbone. Is this what you're here to do, drive the rest of us nuts? You're so demanding half the time, and the rest, you're being a wimp."
Chuck picked up a rock and started stretching it between his hands. He couldn't say anything. It was difficult to know who he really was in this place. If his self-impression bounded around from powerlessness to crankiness, he was just searching for the limits so easily within reach during his day-to-day life. Perhaps he had too many possibilities here, too many choices. The stone strand had gone from rock to wool to fiberglass to the model of a fiberglass speedboat he'd once seen on a lake near his house. He tossed it to one side, discontented. He still wasn't happy, and no activity here seemed to be bringing him closer to his goal.
* * *
Morit, following in Chuck's wake, felt a bitter taste on his tongue that he recognized as envy, as Chuck threw aside the model boat. The power of a veritable Sleeper, and the fool Visitor dismissed it as nothing! What power must they wield in their own land? With the wave of a hand they could wreak destruction that his kind had never dreamed of. Chuck glanced back over his shoulder and smiled at Morit and his wife. Blanda smiled back, with a vacuous expression of adoration. She didn't care that the Visitors could destroy her with a thought. Employing a good deal of strength, Morit forced the corners of his mouth upward into a sour smile, but inwardly he quailed. What if the Visitor could read his mind? What if he just had? He would know the traitorous thoughts he harbored. But, no, the Visitor went back to his argument. Morit began to look around him. His colleagues were supposed to contact him here. The sooner these horrible Visitors were gone from his world, the better.
* * *
The gateway of the Meditation Gardens reminded Chuck of the pictures he'd always seen of the Taj Mahal. White stone had been carved into intricate patterns like swags of silk or ruffles of lace. He peered through one of the openings. Most of what was beyond lay concealed behind a thick curtain of dark green ivy, but a gleam of bright sunshine winking over the wall made Chuck eager to get in and see more. Keir gathered his scattered party together and handed each of them tickets printed on palm-sized octagonal cards.
"Don't lose this," Keir said, holding it up between thumb and forefinger. "You'll need it. It's got your mantra on it."
The old man's dark eyes looked into his, etching his message on Chuck's brain with laserlike intensity. Chuck nodded sincerely as Keir snapped the pasteboard into his hand. He promised himself he would listen more closely to what Keir said. He tucked the ticket deep into a breast pocket that had a button and a zipper, and fastened both. The guide stepped to the front of his group and led them through the swinging gate.
"Enjoy yourselves," Keir said, stepping aside so they could pass him. "I'll come and get you when it's time to go."
On the other side of the turnstile Chuck stopped short in surprise. "There's nothing here," he said. "I mean, there is nothing here."
No one could deny he was speaking the literal truth. The Gardens, which offered such promise from the outside, were a colorless void that stretched out into eternity. Except for a few people here and there, and the gate behind him, not a scrap of color, a hint of texture, or anything to give proportion or scope to the emptiness. It was as though he was standing on glass. No, since there was no perceptible surface or limit, it was more like being surrounded by a translucent fluid, like water but far less tangible. And yet, there still seemed to be a surface to walk upon. Beneath his feet and far above his head he saw more people scattered around, sitting in every possible position and orientation.
"It's good for concentration," Keir said. "It helps you clear your mind. Nothingness is what you should picture so all you need to do is look around you."
"But everyone was saying the Gardens are so beautiful," Chuck said.
"And that," Keir said, with a raised eyebrow, "is why I told you to hold on to your ticket. It has your mantra on it. Settle down, chant, and enjoy!"
Chuck took the square of pasteboard out of his pocket and studied it. On one side were the words MEDITATION GARDENS, REM, ADMISSION: TWO CHICKENS. On the other side was the single syllable: OM.
Well, that's easy, he thought. What could be a more classic mantra? The others probably had something more exotic to concentrate upon, but he didn't want to be distracted by the word itself.
Their fellow travelers were also taking advantage of the stop to see the Gardens. Kenner waved to Chuck as he passed, arm in arm with a girl. Chuck was amazed that he'd already found company. They hadn't been in the Gardens more than a few minutes. The young woman darted a shy look at Chuck. Like the first one on the train platform, this one was dainty with doe eyes, although she had blonde hair and a rosy-cheeked complexion. Chuck shook his head. Mrs. Flannel came in, clutching two tickets. One of them must have been for Spot, who buzzed around her head in the shape of a huge dragonfly. Mr. Bolster entered, his briefcase still in his hands, and sat down on a raised block of nothing with it on his knees as though waiting for an appointment.
Chuck wanted to be alone. He set out toward a corner of the nothingness where the fewest people were seated. Just walking made him feel unsteady, since he couldn't see the surface beneath his feet, and he had the extra burden of suitcases and trunks on his back. Then, he thought of the invisible modeling clay he had been playing with outside the gate. The substance of the Dreamland would do what he made it do. He visualized a level path that went wherever he needed and would never make him stumble. Keeping that in his mind, he strode energetically toward an inviting patch of emptiness, bouncing at each step.
The others evinced a similar need for privacy. The group separated, going off in all directions. Persemid made a sharp left and stalked off along the perimeter. Hiramus strode past him, looking annoyed, and moved away, dropping down out of sight before he'd gone a hundred paces. Pip began immediately to move upward as though tiptoeing up an invisible ramp, and settled herself sixty or seventy feet in the air with her beautiful garments, long black tresses, her chains of matching suitcases flowing around her like a beautiful mermaid in an undersea current waiting for a taxi to the airport. Chuck stared over his shoulder at her in fascination for a moment before moving on. Perhaps she normally vibrated on a higher plane than the rest of them, or she was just used to the drill here. He felt awkward having to learn what his companions who had visited the Dreamland more than once already knew. It had taken such effort for him to reach this stage that he was envious of the ones who had achieved it before him.
To Chuck's frustration, the married couple from Elysia tagged along behind him. He glanced back over the top of his luggage. He didn't want to say anything to Morit or Blanda, but he put on a face that he hoped would make them leave him alone. It didn't work. The man wore an expression of grim determination, but the woman gave him a sweet smile. The fascination that people here had with him and his fellow astral-projectors bordered on celebrity craze. Uneasily, he smiled back, wondering how he could persuade them to go away. Maybe he could lose them. He started walking more briskly. They picked up their pace, too. When he changed direction, they changed direction. When he doubled back toward the gate, so did they. What did Bergold call things like this? Nuisances?
He found he was heading right back toward Keir. The guide's gaze returned from contemplating something pleasurable in the far distance, and focused on Chuck.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked.
"No," Chuck said, a trifle shortly, annoyed that everyone seemed to be having a good time but him. "I can't find anywhere private to sit."
Keir shook his head at Chuck's obtuseness. "Everywhere is private here," he said. "Everyone achieves their own state of being. Just get into it, and you'll see."
"I can't," Chuck said, looking back at his satellites with resentment.
"Sure you can. You're just tied too tightly into the physical world. You can dismiss that here, and should. It's an opportunity you won't get back home, you know. Sit right there," Keir said, pointing at the ground, "and try now."
With a resigned shrug, Chuck sank to the unseen path. Knowing that the married couple was right there annoyed him, but Keir was his guide, and knew better. More people were present in this section than in almost any other. Others passed close by though not necessarily directly past him, because the floor had no real existence than what someone walking on it put into it. Instead, they moved sideways, underneath him or above him, or upside down, hiking along arcs like hills that hung downward instead of sticking up, or swinging by their hands from invisible vines, as they chose.
Chuck was annoyed. This was the long road to Enlightenment. If he had realized the Dreamland could be so easily manipulated, he would have walked off right through the wall of the train, turned around and made straight for the town when he saw it on the map. In spite of the chilling sight of the chasm, in his heart he only half-believed he could really be killed by such a fall. And being in the midst of nothingness with too many people he didn't know was such a waste of time. Keir kept looking down at him, not quite tapping his foot on the ground. Chuck made an imaginary pillow out of the stuff he couldn't see, and sat on it, using his steamer trunk as a backrest.
"Now," said Keir, who had waited while Chuck got comfortable, "chant."
"Om," Chuck intoned, without much enthusiasm. He stared off into the middle distance, fixing on nothing. "Omm. Omm. Ommmm . . . my!" A riot of yellow, red and green burst into existence so close to his face that he jumped back, rolling off his pillow.
The scene suddenly went blank again, leaving him staring at empty space. Where did all that come from? And where did it go? Cautiously, Chuck crawled back onto his pillow, and tried to think of what he had been thinking to get it back. He was embarrassed for having been so angry and getting rewarded with something so beautiful.
"Omm," he said, hopefully. He concentrated deeply on his mantra, giving it all the push he could from the very root of his being. "Omm. Ommmm."
Ah! His mind opened like curtains on a stage. Colorful gardens of a thousand greens, reds, purples, golds, whites, oranges and yellows unfolded and rolled off toward the horizons. Flower beds in every shape and size, crowded with plants, sprouted up everywhere. Glorious skies spread out above him, the blue so beautiful it almost broke his heart.
"Can you see it now?" Keir's voice asked, though the guide himself was invisible behind sprays of jasmine. Chuck nodded slowly, not wanting to break the spell. "Good. See you later."
Chuck was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. He could smell the flowers. He could hear the birds singing to one another as they flitted through the air. He shifted to get a better look.
Suddenly, everything went blank again. Chuck held back the outburst that rose to his lips, and started reciting his mantra to himself. The gardens reappeared. He held ever so still for just a moment, feeling the breeze that wafted past his cheeks, carrying the heady flavor of the flowers' perfume to his nose. He climbed awkwardly to his feet. The scene vanished. He flopped to the ground and summoned the garden back again, fixing it in his mind. It existed. He existed in it.
He noticed figures in his landscape. There were other people in this reality whom he hadn't seen while surrounded by the blankness. They were walking around, yet he didn't seem to be able to. An older woman, touching each flower like the face of a beloved child. Two small boys in oversized brown hooded cloaks and karate gis playing at sword fighting with colored sticks. A large man in the midst of an ancient forest bowing to trees, and having them bow back to him with a grace Chuck hadn't expected in any of them. What did they know that he didn't? All of these people seemed to move to gentle music. Chuck listened intently. He couldn't hear anything, but to his delight, he found that he did feel it and could join in with it.
Concentrating on moving with the lento rhythm, he found he could rise to a standing position. Then, keeping his eye carefully on one landmark or another, he could walk slowly, step by step, without losing the images. The people became hidden behind bushes and shrubs as he moved, leaving him alone in this paradise. He breathed in the smell of damp earth and growing things, imagining himself becoming one with nature. This was what he had been hoping for when he set out on this journey. This was truly zen.
It was difficult to make himself stand still or move slowly when there was so much beauty all around. His curiosity was nearly as overwhelming as the aroma of jasmine. Winding paths spread out from his feet, inviting him to explore. He had spotted a teakwood gazebo off in the distance on the other side of the copse. He couldn't wait to stand in the heart of it and look out upon all this beauty through its carved screens. He didn't want to have to creep a pace at a time. Chuck reasoned that if he walked over to it, he could simply reestablish his meditative state, and gaze all he wanted.
With infinite regret, he released the lush images. Sorrow and loss descended upon him like another trunk as the colors fled, leaving him in the midst of ghost-gray blandness. As quickly as he could, he hiked off in the direction he'd seen the gazebo. After a hundred or so paces, he made a pillow of air and sat down.
Chuck closed his eyes and began to chant, anticipating the delicious sense of wonder he would feel. One, two, three, he thought, then opened his eyes.
Nothing had changed. He was still in the midst of the copse that ought to have been a hundred paces closer to the gate. How could that be? He sought around him, hoping that he was mistaken. No, there were the other patrons, browsing or playing, just where he had last seen them. Off in the distance was that wonderful gazebo. This must be one of Bergold's Frustration Dreams. No matter how he tried, he would be unable to enjoy the rest of the park like everyone else seemed to be doing.
The yearning rose up in him like an upwelling of tears. How could he get to the gazebo if covering the distance wouldn't do it? It should not be impossible! Other people had reached it. Why couldn't he? He wanted very much to be in it. He could almost run his hands along the smooth rail.
To his surprise, the little screen house seemed to be coming closer to him. The scenery rolled by him on either side. He was moving without moving. This was zen. He waited eagerly until the stairs rose under his feet one at a time. He was in the gazebo! And, oh, what an amazing scene greeted him. Beneath the gazebo was a Japanese garden full of delicate flowers and artful arrangements of rocks. Slowly, carefully, Chuck leaned forward to settle his forearms along that rail, enjoying the cool shadow cast by the roof, and the birdsong that rolled around him like a silken carpet. Since he was new to this kind of meditation, the scene faded in and out every so often. Still, he managed to hold on to his place, fixing it in his mind.
Paths wound out from the garden, inviting him to consider the possibilities they offered. For the moment, all he wanted to do was enjoy what he could see from there: the rippling brook under the mauve-painted bridge, the scattering of bronzed leaves on the grass, Morit and Blanda standing and looking up at him.
Chuck straightened up with a jerk. Why were those people following him? To his annoyance, the garden vanished, leaving the couple in stark relief, and revealing the hundreds of other people populating the garden. Chuck felt crowded.
All right, since he could bring the scenery to him now, he would go somewhere else, and concentrate on the wonderful garden in peace. He released the image and headed out toward the emptiest quarter where only a few people sat deep in their own contemplation. He chose a space equidistant from the nearest three, and sat down to chant.
No such luck. Morit and Blanda followed him doggedly, stopping about twenty feet away. The woman spread out a picnic cloth over an expanse of nothingness, and set a huge wicker basket down in the middle of it. Chuck tried to think of his mantra, of the lovely gardens, but all he could concentrate on was the homely clattering of dishes and her soft voice as she chattered to her husband. Morit didn't seem to be enjoying himself, but at least he wasn't talking.
Meditation was meant to close out the distractions of the world. Chuck was determined not to let the couple from Elysia spoil his entire day. He gritted his teeth and muttered "om" to himself until the gardens returned. He could pretend the intruders weren't there by turning his back on them. He could still hear Blanda, but she was a steady, low sound like the brook, a pleasant white noise. Ah.
The gazebo reappeared, and he found himself studying a spray of crisp, pink-and-purple orchids that drooped languidly from the edge of the sloping roof. Their color was brighter and more real than any pink or purple he had ever beheld in his ordinary life. Their shape, like lady's slippers but, well, different, made him want to sculpt them, but better still, to study and enjoy them for hours.
"Happy, happy, happy, happy . . ."
Chuck was startled again out of his reverie. That was unmistakably Mrs. Flannel's voice. He turned his head carefully, trying not to dispel the Japanese garden, which was already showing signs of shredding under the stress he felt pretending Morit and Blanda weren't there. The old woman had sat down in the very center of the gazebo floor with her pink-tights-covered legs tucked into an incredibly uncomfortable-looking double lotus and her hands, with thumbs and middle fingers touching, resting on her knees. The cool interior threatened to slip away. Chuck clawed at the carved panels with his mind, willing them to stay, but they scooted a dozen feet in a moment.
"Happy, happy, happy . . ."
Chuck growled under his breath.
"Shh, please," he hissed. She paid no attention. Spot, a handsome, brown, Capuchin monkey the size of a doll, stared frankly at him. The married couple were on his other side gazing at him with the intensity they'd watch a sideshow exhibit. "Shh!"
With everything he had, Chuck dragged the gazebo and garden back to him. He had to block out the distractions. He had influence at his command. Why not use it? He pictured a berm of earth curving two-thirds of the way around, in between him and the intruders. When he started to chant his mantra again, he could see the berm. It rose up through the green grass, burying the golden sprinkle of leaves, half the flowers, and most of the remaining floor of the summer house. There, he thought with satisfaction. Now he could have peace and quiet.
And quiet was exactly what he did have. As though shocked at his interference, all birdsong had ceased. The sound of the brook was gone, replaced by a sluggish seeping trickle like a drippy pipe. He couldn't see Mrs. Flannel or Morit and Blanda, but he had very little garden left to behold. Instead, It was a dark brown heap of dirt. In the midst of beauty he had managed to construct an eyesore, even to his third eye. Tension started to buckle the silk-smooth facade of his mental image. Chuck snapped out of his funk. He was ashamed of himself. The landscape was blighted, and it was all his fault. So what if there were other people around? It was hardly crowded. Enduring the presence of others, even if they were unwelcome, paled to . . . well, nothingness beside his crime of having marred the landscape he was enjoying. With a curt wave of his arms he dispelled the berm, hoping he hadn't done any lasting damage to the Gardens. All of nature seemed to breathe a deep sigh of relief. The birds began to sing again, and a lone cricket under the floor emitted its sweet, short chirps. A rushing gurgle told him the brook had been restored.
Chuck sat down hard on the floorboards. Now he was really ashamed and disgusted with himself. Childishness of this depth was not at all what he'd hoped he'd find at the bottom of his psyche. All right, so he wasn't as spiritually advanced as the experienced visitors. They seemed to have no trouble shutting out stimuli. He couldn't do it! He was too aware of his surroundings. He would just have to work within his own comfort level. After all, as Keir had pointed out, this was just the beginning of his journey. He only hoped the person inside was nicer than he had been acting.
Chuck had to get away by himself, or he'd never be able to concentrate on anything but resentment. He looked around for the remotest corner of the park. There had to be a corner, as dark and as lonely as he could find, if he had to walk for hours. There he wouldn't upset anyone else. He stood up and started walking, mindful to continue advancing through the landscape. He regretted leaving the little house behind, but serenity like that was not his to possess yet. Nor did he want to be reminded of how he had ruined it.
Luckily, Morit and Blanda's picnic was in full swing. At last the couple was too encumbered to pick up and follow him. The dark-browed man glanced up, stopping chewing in the middle of a deviled egg to glare at Chuck as he hurried away as though offended Chuck was giving him the slip. Chuck shot him an apologetic smile, but didn't pause. Neither Mrs. Flannel nor Spot noticed when he rose. He glanced behind him, hoping that no one else would decide that he was more interesting than the Gardens.
* * *
Morit was upset when the Visitor left. His eyes shot daggers at Mrs. Flannel, now rising gently into the air on the strength of her chanting. He had counted on making an attempt when the Visitor was deep in meditation, and now that opportunity had been ruined. Curse Blanda, too. Morit couldn't go after Chuck Meadows now without calling awkward attention to himself. Blanda had spread out her picnic cloth on this patch of undifferentiated desolation, and was taking endless numbers of platters and bowls from the woven willow basket. He beheld them all with outrage. Blanda had overpacked, as usual. She couldn't intend him to eat this all! There must be enough food here for an army.
She knelt in the middle of the checkered square, arranging dishes on the red and white cloth. The pattern of her dress had changed from a plain blue dress to a red check that matched the cloth, but smaller. Her brown hair was arranged in a halo of curls around her head that bobbed while she gabbled to herself. The food smelled good. Morit couldn't stand to watch her for long. It was too homey, and he was not home. He was here on a deadly serious mission. He sprang up. Chuck Meadows was nearly out of sight.
He started to follow, when Blanda's voice dragged him back.
"Isn't it lovely here, dear? It's not at all as I imagined it, but I'm so happy to see at last what the neighbors were talking about. You remember when they showed us their vacation pictures, don't you? Images and images! We were there almost all the night, and I thought they were so pretty, though how they took pictures that lasted without chanting their mantras I don't know . . ." The stream of words puddled around his feet and held him as fast as a pool of glue. He tugged first at one shoe, then the other, then sat down on the cloth in resignation. ". . . But this is so much prettier than I thought. Don't you think so?"
"Looks like urban renewal," Morit growled, dropping his chin dejectedly into his hand. "I don't see a nightmare-cursed thing."
"Oh, but it is just beautiful. The nice man gave you your own mantra. You could see it if only you said your word a few times."
"Why aren't you chanting, then?"
Blanda smiled at him, and set a jar of pickles at one corner of the cloth. "Oh, darling, I did, but I guess I just don't need to do it for very long," she said.
Morit wouldn't doubt that. The woman was off in her own world half the time. It was probably connected to this miserable place, where everyone was enjoying themselves but him. He watched her take a bottle of artichoke hearts and a crock of olives, and arrange them artistically by the pickles. "There's fountains all around us, my dear. They sound so nice. Tinkle tinkle tinkle! We'd like one in our garden, wouldn't we?"
"No, we would not," Morit said, irritatedly. "They're a nightmare's load of work, and it would keep changing into a log flume, or a swimming pool full of horrible little children. Besides, there's nothing here."
Blanda shook her head at him fondly. "Of course there is, my love. All you have to do to see it is say your little word a few times. I'm sure it's just right for you. Mine is. It's so nice and homey, just perfect for me. Whenever the images start to fade, I just say it to myself. It's `bread.' Bread, bread, bread, bread . . . Oh, look, there's a unicorn! Try it, my love. You must see him. He's all white and blue, and his adorable little beard!"
Morit grumbled into his own beard. He wouldn't chant a mantra if his life depended on it. He tuned out Blanda's chatter, watching Chuck walking toward the remote end of the gardens. The Visitor receded into the distance, growing smaller and smaller. It was too much to hope he would just turn into a tiny point and vanish. Of all the strangers from the Waking World, Morit felt Chuck Meadows was the most dangerous. He seized power like a tyrant, and treated it like a trifle. The Dreamland could not remain intact in the continued presence of such a powerful entity. The place would shake apart before long, sending them all plummeting into chaos. He must be killed first. Now.
Morit knew his compatriots were lurking around. Plan MG, the scheme they had worked out for this place, must be put into play as soon as possible. Once everyone was isolated in his or her own thoughts, Morit's comrades could confront the Visitors one at a time. If they could not be scared back to the Waking World, they must die. Perfectly simple. All Morit had to do was wait for his contact.
Blanda was chattering about potato salad when a sinister-looking man with a mustache and wearing a black trench coat and slouch hat pulled low over his face appeared at their side. He didn't meet Morit's eye, but looked off into the middle distance. While his wife watched with curiosity on her mild face, Morit stood up, stared off into nothingness, and whispered under his breath to him.
"That one first," he said, cocking his head in the direction that Chuck had gone. A brief nod for an answer, and the man in black scurried away like a rat. Twenty yards away, he sidled up to another mysterious-looking man in a red trench coat. Both of them hurried furtively away to find others. Morit was pleased with himself. The word was spreading. The Visitors would be taken unaware. Morit sat down to watch the man in red not-looking at a similarly clad man in green.
"Who was that, dear?" Blanda asked, busy spooning the contents of a container of fruit gelatin into a ceramic bowl painted with tulips.
"No one," Morit said. "He was asking the time. I told him whose time it was."
"Oh, that was very nice of you, dear," she said, handing him a full plate of food. "Sit down, now, and have your lunch."
Morit shook his head in disbelief. Blanda could be so very dense. But that suited his purposes. He didn't want a wife who would meddle and prevent him from getting his way.
The order that had just gone out should be put into effect before the afternoon was out. Wait until Chuck Meadows was vulnerable, then strike! He looked forward to celebrating victory by evening. A toast to their success seemed appropriate. Blanda handed him a filled mug and he swigged it without looking at it. He spat a stream of red out into the nothingness. Fruit punch! Ugh!
| Title: | The Grand Tour |
| Author: | Jody Lynn Nye |
| ISBN: | 0-671-57883-9 |
| Copyright: | © 2000 by Jody Lynn Nye |
| Publisher: | Baen Books |