The man strode closer, the legs of his stretchy riding pants rubbing ominously together, as his knee-high boots smacked hard against the concrete in a chorus of doom. I narrowed my gaze on his tight blue shirt, noting how the buttons were this close to popping, while his silk, paisley scarf twisted loosely around his neck, once, twice, before floating behind him like a swirl of hazy jetstream.
And the next thing I knew, he was standing before us, hand clutched to his chest as he said, “Aw, but she is perfetto! Perfection—I say! Hurry now, vite-vite—there is no time to waste!”
I paused, looking to Mort for guidance, unsure what to do. After the ordeal with the guard I was afraid of saying or doing anything wrong.
But a second later, the strange little man was tugging on my sleeve, pulling me toward him as he said, “You must come—and quickly! She is just what I have asked for! A gift that has arrived—how do you say? In the very nick of time! How did you know that I needed you now?” He glanced my way, eyebrow arched high, not allowing any time to reply before he waved his hand before him and said, “Never mind! I do not question the how—I accept this gift as it is. There is no time to waste—no time at all! Just, please, this must be worn—” He thrust a pair of pristine white gossamer wings into my arms. “Now, quickly, you must follow, vite-vite! We must not delay!”
I rushed alongside him, bolted over a wide swath of concrete, over a winding trail of grass, followed by a path of crumbly asphalt. Going right past a big, surprisingly run-down, abandoned building, slowing my pace as I struggled to get the wings securely placed on my back. Having no idea what they might be for, but so happy to be moving away from the gate I decided not to ask.
“I thought it was over. I was sure I would be forced to compromise—something of which I, Balthazar, am not fond, not fond at all.” He glanced at Buttercup, smiling brightly as he added, “A dream is a delicate recipe—consisting of only the purest ingredients. A dream must be handled with great care. Like soufflé!” He clapped his hands together, delighted with his own metaphor. “A delicate balance with no room for substitutes. I was all out of options, I was this close to leaving—” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, held it high over his shoulder so that Buttercup, Mort, and I could all see. “I think to myself: Balthazar, maybe this time you really do quit. Maybe now is when you retire for good! And then, the very next moment, what do I see?”
He stopped so abruptly I nearly crashed into his side, and it took a moment to realize he was actually awaiting a reply.
I smiled serenely, using the Mona Lisa as my guide. My chin lowered, eyes downcast, voice quiet and humbled as I said, “I am honored to be of service. I do have a very strange knack for showing up at just the right time.”
I paused, swaddled in the comfort of feeling rather pleased with myself. Then I lifted my eyes to meet his, and that’s when I realized it wasn’t exactly me that he found so magnifico and perfetto.
Nope, it wasn’t me at all.
It was Buttercup that had him enthralled.
Balthazar squinted as though seeing me for the very first time, which, I soon realized, he was.
“What is this?” He scoffed, face creased into a scowl as he yanked away the wings he’d thrust at me earlier. “You make joke with me? Is that it? Balthazar has great sense of humor, everyone agrees. But now is not time for jokes! Balthazar has very important work! The dreamer will awaken if we do not move quickly—all will be lost!” He shook his head, muttered under his breath, and struggled to place the wings onto a very unhappy, not-so-cooperative Buttercup.
Still feeling a little annoyed by the way I’d been treated, the way I’d come in second place to my dog, I placed my hands on my hips and said, “Um, okay, but just so you know, Buttercup is a he, not a she. Also, he doesn’t need wings to fly, he can manage just fine on his own.”
Balthazar’s eyes grew wide, and then wider still. Hardly able to believe his good fortune as he grabbed hold of Buttercup’s collar and ran, leaving Mort and me to struggle to catch up with them.
“Balthazar has an artistic temperament,” Mort told me, his words punctuated by the sound of his black dress shoes pounding the asphalt. “He can get a bit … testy at times, but that’s only because he’s such a perfectionist. He has vision. Remarkable vision. He’s a master. The absolute best. No one can handle a dream jump like him. He’s just as big a legend Here as he was on the earth plane. Not to worry, Buttercup is in good hands.”
“But who is Balthazar?” I asked, choosing to slow, no longer trying to keep up their pace. Mort shot me a strange look then pointed at the fading figure ahead, but I just shook my head and said, “No, what I meant was, who is he? What does he do here?”
Mort turned, brows quirked in disbelief. “Balthazar runs the place! Has for years. Back when he was alive, he was one of the most celebrated directors of all time. Got a shelf full of Oscars to prove it. Now that he’s Here he oversees all the dream jumps. Has a handful of assistant directors to help him, but make no mistake, he’s in charge. You got a dream visitation in mind, you gotta go through him. He’s your only hope. He decides who makes the cut.”
9
“She is a natural. She has done this before, no?”
I gazed down the tip of Balthazar’s pointing finger, watching Buttercup take flight, soaring back and forth across a set arranged to look like a beautiful enchanted garden—complete with blooming trees, a sparkling lawn, and a glistening lake populated by a small group of black and white swans.
“He,” I said, my voice more than a little testy, maybe too testy. But still, how many times would I be forced to say it before he understood? “Buttercup is a he,” I repeated, but it was no use, my words fell on deaf ears. Balthazar merely waved it away, jumped from his chair, and motioned for Buttercup to soar higher, for the swans to glide faster, as a guy who looked to be in his twenties walked hand in hand with a girl, whispering softly into her ear.
I hoisted myself onto the director’s chair an assistant had brought me, crossing one leg over the other, and turning to Mort, just about to ask him a question when he shook his head and pointed toward the sign overhead with the bright red letters that read: SILENCE! DREAM IN PROGRESS!
Left with no choice but to shelve all my questions ’til later, I took a good look around, taking in the hive of activity, the sheer amount of work it took to make a dream happen. It was surprising to say the least.
Up until then I’d always assumed that dreams were … well … a whole lot simpler than what I saw unfolding before me. I always assumed they were woven from remnants of random thoughts and experiences that happened during the day—bits and pieces of things seen and heard, mixed in with mere figments of the imagination. All of it sort of swirling together like some kind of fantastical, subconscious soup. Or at least that was the gist of the dream interpretation book Ever got me one year for Christmas. But according to what I saw happening in Dreamland, that book was dead wrong.
It was a production.
Like a major, big-time production.
Reminding me of the time my class took a field trip to see an opera in Portland, not long before I died.
Just like the opera, the set was elaborate, carefully crafted, containing a whole crew of actors, including my dog, who continued to fly overhead. Yet there was also a whole crew of people working off the stage too. Including costume designers, makeup artists, and hair stylists, as well as lighting technicians, a stunt person or two, and a whole team that, from what I could see, were in charge of the special effects.
Also like the opera, there was a pit at the edge of the stage where the orchestra sat. A small group of musicians clutching a strange variety of horns, and cans, and chains, and, yeah, some even had the kind of musical instruments you might expect—all of them keeping a close eye on Balthazar—awaiting their signal, to make just the right sound, at just the right moment.