The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(46)

“So you would describe them as a kind of, er . . . journey. Is that correct, Mr. Sinclair?” the doctor inquired.

“Yes . . . more or less.” Clayton fidgeted impatiently in the uncomfortable leather armchair, unable to find a position that made him feel more relaxed. He decided to cross his legs and lean forward slightly, fixing his gaze a few feet beyond his shoes. “I don’t really know how to explain it. You see, the fact is, I know my body isn’t there—even when I am completely unconscious I know that I’m not completely there—and yet somehow I don’t feel I am dreaming either, and when I wake up I don’t even remember it as a dream . . . It is as if that place really existed and I am able to travel there with my mind—or my soul.” He shrugged, despairing at how all this must sound. “Does what I’m saying appear stupid to you, Doctor?”

Doctor Higgins smiled reassuringly. “If I devoted myself to treating stupid people I would have a full practice, and I would be a wealthy man.”

Clayton gazed at him in silence for a few seconds but decided it was best not to tell him that, to judge by the nurse’s excessive precautions, Dr. Higgins did have a full practice, and by his watch, his ring, and his flamboyant spectacles, all evidently solid gold, he was indeed a wealthy man.

“So tell me, Mr. Sinclair, this place you dream of, is it always the same?”

“Yes.”

“Describe it to me,” the doctor said, removing his spectacles and placing them on top of one of the piles of books on his desk, where they perched like an eagle on a rock.

“Well . . . it’s not easy.”

“Please try.”

Clayton heaved a sigh.

“It is a strange yet familiar country,” he said at last. “In my . . . dreams, I arrive in a place that could be anywhere in the English countryside. In fact, I could be in one of those serene meadows with babbling brooks that Keats described, or at least that’s how it feels when I am there. But at the same time, everything is different. It is as if someone had taken everything around me, placed it in a dice cup, and shaken it before throwing it over the world again. That place would be what came out. There everything is . . . all mixed-up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . . people aren’t just people, or perhaps they are, people like you and me, but they are also something else. It is as if they had animals inside them, or maybe it is the other way round: they are animals with human souls . . . Sometimes I see them in their animal guise, and the next moment I find myself contemplating a woman, a man, or a child. The whole of Nature is mixed-up, merged: the creatures in that place are both animals and humans, and possibly plants too. There are bat-men, fish-women, butterfly-children, but also moss-babies and old people who are snow . . . Only when I’m there, none of that surprises me. Everything flows harmoniously and naturally; I never think it could be otherwise. I myself am many things, a different thing each journey: sometimes an animal, or wind, or rain . . . When I am wind, I like to blow on her haunches, rippling her coat, and she runs over the hill, turns, and passes through me; sometimes I am the dew on the grass, and I soak her fur when she lies down on me; other times I run with her; she is swift and I can only outrun her when I am a wolf too . . . and sometimes we talk and drink tea in her elegant drawing room, and she picks a piece of fruit from my arm and bites into it joyously, for I am a tree, and sometimes a bird soaring in the sky, and she howls with rage because she can’t reach me—”

“You always dream about the same place, yet all your dreams are different,” the doctor broke in.

“Yes,” Clayton replied, both irritated and unsettled by the interruption. “I always go to the same place, and I always encounter the same, er . . . person.”

“A woman?”

Clayton hesitated for a moment.

“She isn’t exactly a woman. I already told you that the definitions we use here are impossible to apply there. Let’s say she is . . . feminine.”

The doctor nodded thoughtfully and stroked his goatee, a smile flickering on his lips.

“But each journey is very different from the others,” Clayton went on, trying to change the subject.

“That’s odd,” mused the doctor. “Recurring dreams usually present few variations . . .”

“I already told you they aren’t like dreams.”

“Yes, so you did.” The doctor gave his goatee a few gentle tugs, like an actor making sure his false beard is firmly stuck on. Then he glanced down at his notes. “You also told me they started approximately six months ago.”

“That’s right.”

“And that nothing like this has ever happened to you before.”

“No.”

“Are you positive you never suffered from any childhood episodes of sleepwalking, or other disorders such as insomnia or nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“And please try to remember: Have you at any other time in your life experienced any of the following symptoms: migraines, phonophobia, or digestive disorders . . .”

Clayton shook his head.

“. . . apathy, fatigue, depression, loss of appetite . . .”

“Well, lately there are days when I feel tired and have no appetite—”

“No, no! I’m only interested in the period leading up to six months ago, before you started having these . . . dreams.”