Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(13)
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 perfec-tionist. 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.
It was amazing.
Absolutely and completely amazing.
Watching it all unfold right before me, well, I couldn’t help but take a quick mental inventory of all the old dreams I remembered from my past, unable to see them the same way I once had.
Though unlike the opera, it seemed it was over before it could really get started. And the next thing I knew Balthazar leaped from his chair and shouted, “She’s awake! That’s a wrap! Good work, everyone!”
The girl vanished—like, one second she was there and the next, not. And while the crew busied themselves with clearing the stage and dismantling the set, the guy wiped the tears from his eyes and profusely thanked Balthazar—telling him that for the first time since his death, he felt like he’d truly gotten through to his grieving fiancée.
Buttercup bounded toward the pile of doggy biscuits Balthazar held in his hand. All puffed up and self-satisfied with his performance, his newfound star power, he went about the business of busily wolfing them down, as Balthazar smiled and said, “Here he is—the true star of this show!” Then looking at me, he added, “I am in your debt. Because of your dog, the dream was saved. The girl was dreaming of a beautiful field of sparkling lakes, black and white swans, and, believe it or not, angelic, flying dogs. And, as I had none on hand, when you showed up when you did—well, it saved the entire production.