Chuck woke to a glorious scene outside his cabin window. High mountains swept up to blue heavens, the color that could break one's heart with its beauty. A broad, deep river ran alongside the track. Bald eagles flew over its surface, picking bright silver fish from just below the surface. Deep green forests bordered the stream. It was so nice and refreshingly real after the phony buildings of Ephemer.
Suddenly, the scenery halted. There was nothing beyond the forests but blank whiteness. Men and women in smocks and berets stood stubbornly not far from the tracks with their arms folded tightly against their chests. The train screeched to a halt. Chuck went to see what was going on.
"It's an artists' strike," the conductor said. "They are holding a work stoppage because the resort keeper hasn't paid them. They've painted over the tracks. Wiped them clean out of existence. We're halting here until the dispute can be resolved." Chuck could tell it hurt the conductor to have to alter his precious schedule. He pulled down the window in between the cars and leaned out to listen to the argument taking place.
"Oh, come on!" a solidly built man in a green boiled-wool suit was pleading. "You must finish this mountain."
"No," said the key artist, a slender man with a wisp of beard and beautiful, long hands, which he held out against the innkeeper's protests. "Not until our needs are met."
"But there are climbers trapped up there! They can't come down until you paint in the other slope, with the piste you promised me. And look," the burly man said, noticing Chuck and other passengers hanging out the windows of the train, "you are holding up the railroads."
"Look, we have our expenses, too," the lead artist said. "Do you think scenery paint is cheap? Especially since you want it three-dimensional. With atmosphere?" He made a dramatic, mocking gesture. "They can stay up there until Changeover, for all we care. If they've got influence of their own, they may not want to come down to your awful little establishment."
"We know which of your amenities are illusory, and which aren't," one of the female artists pointed out. "Pay up!"
"Oh, all right," the innkeeper said, resentfully. He reached into his jerkin pocket and came up with a large round bag tied at the top. The coins inside jingled as the man reluctantly handed it over.
The lead artist accepted it from him. In his hands the bag became heavier and longer, and the outlines of the objects within it changed from round and flat to long and thin. He opened the bag and started handing out tubes of color to his crew. The lead artist squeezed a huge dollop of blue onto his palette. Taking his brush, he sketched five or six quick lines in the air that spread out like watercolors on wet paper. In the distance, the tiny figures on the top of the peak started moving quickly towards the stripes of paint. Chuck watched, agog, as they began to ski down the lines.
"Good morning!" Keir said, appearing at his side. The only concession in dress he made to the chilly air was a scarf around his neck.
"How can they do that?" Chuck asked. "Those mountains are far away, but he just drew in the right slope, and it connects! Isn't the scenery real?"
"Certainly it is," Keir said. "It's all done with forced perspective."
"It's not a backdrop?"
"Oh, no. It's real landscape. Three-dimensional. Look out there." Chuck followed Keir's pointing finger, and squinted. On the new mountainside, fresh out of the artists' brushes, he saw small chalets with smoke rising from their chimneys, colorful sleighs drawn by waist-high reindeer, and dozens of people skiing. He spotted three men in lederhosen lean over to blow on alpenhorns, sending their melancholy mooing out over the valley.
"Incredible," Chuck said.
"Artists are a common feature of the comprehensive tour. After all, isn't the tradition to go from place to place admiring fine works of art? These are landscape painters. You have a rare opportunity to see them in action."
The train's whistle blew a sharp blast.
"They've painted the track in again," Keir said. "We can proceed now."
With his new perspective in mind, Chuck enjoyed watching the scenery as it appeared stroke by stroke on the whiteness beside the train. He waved to the artists if they looked up. Some of them waved back. Others, conscious of their dignity, or just too busy, nodded and kept working. To judge by the expanse of nothing running alongside the train, they had a lot to get done.
He went to look out the other side. There, the great massif of the Mystery Mountains was, as always, very much in evidence. That seemed to change little, if at all, as though it was the frame for the constantly shifting work of art within it that was the Dreamland.
* * *
Chuck's musings cut off suddenly as the train zipped into a tunnel. The steam whistle keened a lonely note that turned into a frightened howl in the newly confined space. Spooky voices emitted a sinister laugh into his left ear.
"Mwah ha ha hah!" Chuck jumped and yanked up the window. Desperate for the safety of daylight he couldn't wait for them to emerge on the other side. The vibration in the tunnel echoed in his chest. He thought he heard clockwork noises coming from inside his own body. His hands flew up, seeking the source of the tick-tock-tick-tock. Maybe that was the reason why he felt so unhappy and out of place in his own life. He was a robot! All of these dreams had been induced to make him think he was real, just to see what he would do and how he would react. That's why he was flawed. His mainspring was running down.
Daylight blinded Chuck momentarily as the train emerged from the tunnel. The tick-tick-tick sounds continued, louder than before. Chuck thought he glimpsed the hint of circuitry in the hollows between trees and under the surface of rivers. The mountains were nothing but huge constructs! If he was a robot, he should rebel against his makers, end his travels now and go back.
But the sound shifted gradually into the comforting clickety-tat of the train on the rails, easing Chuck's fears. The mechanical pulse no longer resonated inside him. He was only human, and grateful to be so. He could even see himself silhouetted on the bank they were passing. Due to a trick of the light, he was casting a double shadow. Chuck grinned. One of him had wavy hair, the other smooth. Then he realized the absurdity of the notion. A double shadow? Someone must be behind him! Startled, he glanced around, looking for the other figure. There was no one there. Suddenly, Chuck didn't want to be alone. He made for the sitting-room car.
"There, do you see?" Bergold was saying as Chuck came into the carriage. The little Historian was pointing out of the window. The train was going over a stream, giving them a good view upriver. Dozens of bridges spanned the water. Some were only a couple of ropes spread with planks. Others were wrought-iron footbridges, stone humpbacked spans, and complicated suspension bridges. The modern bridge closest to the train was clogged with a variety of vehicles from haywains to Ferraris, all heading into the west. Underneath one end, Chuck could see a green-skinned troll talking with three bearded and horned goats.
"Bridges arise in the Dreamland as a matter of course," the Historian continued. "Then, we build more. Every new connection helps us perform our function more efficiently. Bridges also give us confidence. Sleepers know we feel better if we have a way to retreat from a situation. You will see that especially in areas like this, where two provinces meet."
They traveled through an area busier than they had seen before. Spans and arches crossed over the railroad tracks, carrying still more traffic. A small brass sign on the side of the railway cut read ONEIROS-SOMNUS. The sound of the train changed slightly as it rolled onto a different kind of bridge than any of the others before it. Its solidity reminded Chuck of the ones around the Rock of Ages.
It needed to be that hardy. When Chuck looked down into the crevasse over which they were passing, his heart sprang into his throat. The one the train had almost fallen into on his first day was a dimple in the landscape compared with this one. He swore he could see two levels of cloud before he spotted the shining silver river far below. He swallowed hard and clutched at the seat frame. But this bridge felt as secure as a mother's lap. His anxiety was all in his own head.
He did notice what Bergold had once told him, that most of the population centers were close to the borders. Atop the headlands, tall steeples and skyscrapers pointed toward the sky. Nearer by was a cluster of small storybook-quaint villages. Beside the large one over which they were passing, thousands of bridges crossed the gap. They looked as thin as strands of spider web. The minute figures of people walked back and forth on them between the two provinces, maybe just to prove to themselves that they could.
Not too far over the border, the train sped up, racing through, past the towns and into the flat green countryside beyond. Idly, Chuck glanced out of the window at the way ahead and clutched his seat arms.
"We're going straight into the water!" he shouted. There were no tracks going across the broad body of water. The weight of the train would drag them down to the bottom. There was no time to jump. They would all drown. What was the engineer thinking?
The others rushed to the windows to look, but Keir never rose from his perch on the arm of the aisle seat. Just as the train looked as though it would plummet under the surface, it grew in height and breadth, each successive car piling into the rear of it adding to the bulk of the graceful cruise ship putting out magnificently from the shore.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "We've just reached the Sea of Dreams."
Influence took over their car and changed it out of all recognition. The party found themselves sitting in overstuffed armchairs in a marble-floored lounge. The roof soared three stories above them, where a crystal chandelier threw sparkling light onto twin spiral staircases, a walnut and brass bar, and a tall teakwood desk behind which stood the conductor and a host of smiling young people in white uniforms. A trim man in a coat like a streamlined tuxedo bowed to them.
"Welcome aboard. My staff will show you to your quarters."
* * *
Morit dropped his bags on the floor of the cabin to which he and Blanda had been assigned. He was displeased. He'd seen the nice accommodations set aside for the Visitors. This cabin wasn't nearly as large or as well appointed. In fact, it was downright shabby.
"Oh, look, dear!" his wife exclaimed, throwing back the curtains. "We have a balcony."
"Look at those curtains," he said sourly, regarding the sorry lengths of gray hanging on either side of the sliding glass doors. "And the bedspreads! They're threadbare!"
"Oh, they're not so bad," Blanda said. She tugged the curtains back. When she touched them the grayness sprang away from the expanse of cloth, leaving them crisp and colored a translucent, pale blue. She dusted her hand over the bedspread, which took on the same character. "I'm sure they're every bit as good as the Visitors have."
"Yes, but the Visitors are on the top deck," Morit growled.
"Oh, Morit, there's only so many cabins up there. We're on the next floor down," Blanda said, always willing to see the best in things, even if it meant she got shortchanged. Morit had never been able to understand her. It never bothered her that their lot was always to get the leftovers when everyone else had a proper share of the meat. She didn't feel the injustice that ate away at him.
"You see how the door works," the cabin steward said, getting their attention in order to demonstrate. The young man simply would not go away. He'd led them here. With that, Morit considered his job at an end, but he insisted on prolonging his stay. "It opens, and it closes. See?" He wiped his nose on his cuff, then extended his hand expectantly to Morit. Morit eyed him, ignoring the palm.
"I know how doors work."
"Oh," the steward said, eying him with open speculation. "So, then, sir, just exactly how nice do I have to be to get the tip you're obligated to give me at the end of the cruise?"
Morit smiled slowly. This man was one of his kind. Nothing was free or freely given. He expected to give service for reward, but not a pencil's worth more.
"I think we understand one another very well," he said. "What do you think of the passengers upstairs, eh?"
"Morit!" Blanda said, warningly. But Morit had seen the light of interest in the young man's eyes.
"We'll talk later," Morit said, pushing him out and closing the door on him. It didn't matter what his wife thought. The moment of the destruction of the Visitors was coming very close now. It was unavoidable. The very forces of nature that the Sleepers of the Waking World brought to bear would themselves make it possible to wipe out five of their own number. Who knows? he thought, as he followed Blanda out to the promenade deck for lifeboat drill. There might even be more Visitors aboard this vessel who would perish in the coming disaster.
* * *
Chuck liked the new incarnation of the train. The slower they traveled, the more sumptuous the meals became. Now that they were going only twelve or thirteen knots, instead of sixty to ninety miles per hour, the food service was positively luxurious. Champagne flowed at every meal. The Visitors were regaled with tiny sandwiches and petits fours at teatime, pheasant under glass and filets mignons for dinner, and chocolates on the pillow at night. The map of their journey was posted on the bulkhead. A miniature ship that moved on its own described their progress. Small islands dotted the face of the Sea of Dreams. Chuck looked forward to visits to the ones that had been highlighted.
Keir held classes, if Chuck could call those casual gatherings such, all over the ship. It made a pleasant change from the first-class car which, though well appointed, was still one room. On the finite environment of a ship, there was only so far Pipistrella could stray. Keir simply tracked her down wherever she was: in the library, shopping in the gallery of expensive stores on the center deck, in the spa receiving relaxing massages or facials, or on deck near the swimming pool sunning her beautiful body with her luggage strewn around her. The group conducted its meditation exercises in that spot.
Chuck took the opportunity for a private word with Keir during one of these Pip hunts.
"I don't mean to be a pain," he said tentatively, reluctant to bring up such a minor fault as chronic tardiness, "but having to do this because she can't keep track of time is a hassle to the rest of us. It's like she's not completely here."
Keir smiled. "The problem is that your perceptions don't match. She's such an advanced soul that it's difficult for her to retain the mundane forms for very long. It is frequently annoying for me, too. As you can tell, even I have trouble keeping up with her. She goes her own way to fulfill the requirements of her own soul."
That was difficult for Chuck to accept. She didn't seem to connect in any vital way he could see. But he remembered her helping Sean so effectively. She seemed to know just what to say, and she had a generous heart. "If she's so advanced, what's she doing here?"
"You want me to tell tales out of school?" Keir asked, with that sharp look in his black eyes. Chuck wasn't going to be put off.
"Yes. Frankly, it would help us stand her more. Sean worships the ground she walks on, but I think I can speak for Persemid and Hiramus as well as myself that she drives us crazy. We're already tense, since you won't take our word for it that we're being stalked. We don't need another irritant."
Keir cocked his head. "I like your progress. You're making a consensus among your fellow passengers. Do you think you'd have done that even a short while ago?"
Chuck gave up. Arguing with Keir was like wrestling with a curtain. He ended up enfolded in Keir's logic, completely losing track of his own question. On the other hand, he realized that Pipistrella wasn't his problem. It was two other things that marred the journey for him. The subtle presence continued to follow him wherever he went. Chuck often caught the corner of a bearded or cloaked silhouette flitting away whenever he looked up. Chuck had tried chasing it, or setting a trap for it by pretending to be distracted, then spinning around, but he never managed to catch the person attached to the shadow.
The other worry was the hole inside him. As he had feared, it was growing larger by the day. It was already a foot wide, and was beginning to affect his muscles. When it reached his shoulders, his arms would fall right off. He sat through his meditations, ate his meals, and went to bed worrying about what was gnawing away inside him. Nothing could take his mind off it for very long. The ship's cruise director had arranged plenty of evening entertainment for them. The auditorium changed shape often to remain appropriate to the type of amusement being offered. It was a nightclub to accommodate bad comedians, a theater-in-the-round for acrobats and animal acts, even subway seating for buskers with guitar cases open at their feet for tips.
Chuck sat through all of it with a hand on his chest, monitoring the gap. If he was going to fall apart, he wanted to have that moment's warning so he could leave to be by himself. He didn't want anyone else to see him go to pieces. The undercurrent of fear he felt spoiled his pleasure in everything he did or saw. Even when the entertainers made him laugh or gasp with wonder, it didn't fill in the fundamental emptiness. He'd hoped it would; nothing else on the journey had so far, and time was running out.
He discovered the open-air bar on the top deck was open all day and all night long. Overindulging in food and drink numbed his perception. That way, too, when he inevitably glimpsed the shadow hovering around, he didn't care.
| Title: | The Grand Tour |
| Author: | Jody Lynn Nye |
| ISBN: | 0-671-57883-9 |
| Copyright: | © 2000 by Jody Lynn Nye |
| Publisher: | Baen Books |