The name sounded weighty. Important. Like he might descend from royalty or something.
But Satchel just shrugged. Assured me it was just a name that’d been passed down in the family until it was his turn to wear it, not so different from a hand-me-down shirt.
Assured me that it didn’t mean much of anything, so I shouldn’t attach too much meaning to it.
There were other things that mattered more.
“Much more,” he said.
“Yeah, like what?” My gaze pored over him, hoping the answer might help me get to know him a little better, might prove that there was nothing to be afraid of, that he was really no different from me.
Hoping that it might rid me of the creepy, nagging feeling that had stirred up inside me ever since I made my way in and grasped his hand in mine.
But he just shrugged again, saying, “We’ll get to that later. First, I need help with this dream.”
He led me deeper into the room, and finally I saw where that strange and flickering light had originated. He had some antique projector rigged up in the back that pointed toward a big, stained old screen—its corners all yellowed and curled, with a series of rips and tears that crept along the bottom seam.
“What’s this?” I asked, thinking this room was so much smaller than the one I’d done my practice jumps in, and wondering why he was using such old, outdated equipment when there was shiny, new, modern stuff to be had, if not manifested.
“New is not always better.” He glanced at me, fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves. “This works just as well, and besides, it’s authentic.”
I stopped right there, refusing to take another step closer. “Authentic to what, exactly?” My hand on my hip, my lips screwed to the side, needing a bit more to go on.
He huffed, patted his hair with the palm of his hand—smoothing a haircut that wasn’t just totally and completely outdated, but that also looked as though it was whipped into obedience with superglue and spit.
“Authentic to Dreamland,” he said. “This, all that you see before you, it’s all of the original equipment. It’s what they used to use before …” He paused, then, shaking his head, decided to leave it right there.
Though I wasn’t about to let him off so easily. If he needed help, then I needed answers, despite whatever deal we may have struck just a few moments earlier.
I narrowed my eyes, fixed him with my most serious, stoniest stare. Watching as he sighed, threw his arms in the air, and said, “This is the stuff they used to use before things changed around here. This is all the original equipment that …”
And that’s when I knew. Knew it before the words left his lips.
His eyes locked on mine as he confirmed the thought in my head.
“This is the stuff the dreamweavers used back in the day.”
Dreamweaving.
According to the gate guard, Mort, and most definitely Balthazar, dreamweaving was not done in these parts anymore. Heck, I’d gotten a major case of the stink-eye just for making an accidental mention of it.
I looked at Satchel, my eyes growing wide. But he just smiled, his face radiant, almost angelic, when he said, “Trust me, once you weave a dream, you’ll never want to dream jump again.”
16
“The secret to dreamweaving is to keep the ingredients as organic as possible. It needs to come off as real and authentic, otherwise the dreamer will wake and the message will fail. With dreamweaving you have to make it seem like something the dreamer would’ve come up with by themselves—something they’d never even guess was not their own creation. Dreamweaving is all about leaving a big impression. It’s all about the impact you make.”
I nodded, committing his words to memory, wondering if I should maybe manifest myself a small notebook so I could scribble it down, just like Balthazar had done with my backstory.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Satchel said, nodding at me. “You can use all the monsters, dragons, witches, warlocks, fairies, werewolves—whatever fantasy creatures you like—as long as it’s real to the dreamer—as long as it’s part of their experience, part of their world. As long as it’s something they either secretly, or not so secretly, believe in. If it’s real to them, then it’s fair game. It’s all about knowing the dreamer. Knowing what they care about … what they desire … what they fear. Or, in many cases, what they overlook.”
I squinted, wondering how he coul
d possibly know all of this. But just as soon as I’d completed the thought, he smiled and said, “I studied under Balthazar.”
I gasped, wondering how that could possibly be when I figured him for the same age as me. And then it hit me—maybe he was the same age as me.
Maybe he had been the same age as me for a very long time.