Dreamrider by Barry Jonsberg Page A

more than fifty. Her skin was baggy, yet it was her eyes that held my attention. She had deep and kind eyes, but the pain under the surface made me flinch. It was like seeing calm water and catching a glimpse of monsters beneath. It was such an arresting face that I stood for some time before I noticed she was watching me with amused patience. I cleared my throat.
    â€˜Mrs Atkins?’ I said.
    â€˜Yes. What can I do for you?’
    â€˜My name is Michael Terny, Mrs Atkins. I am one of your husband’s students.’
    She gave a small smile.
    â€˜Well, Michael. I’m pleased to meet you, but I think you’ll find my husband is at school. Can I ask why you are not there too?’
    I felt uncomfortable under her gaze. This Dream seemed different from normal. In the early days of lucid dreaming, I hadn’t had much control. The Dream had its own logic and I could only influence minor details. It had been a long time since that had happened. I could shape everything now. True, I would often allow the Dream to flow in the surreal manner of ordinary dreams. But even that was a conscious choice to let go. Not now, though. The dog and Mrs Atkins appeared to be independent of me in some way. It was strange, but I had come this far and I wanted to know what would happen.
    â€˜Mrs Atkins, I am not here to see your husband. I have come to see you. To help you.’
    She gave a tired smile, as if a child had said something cute. But it was impossible to take offence.
    â€˜Well, Michael, that is very kind of you. I’m not at all sure I need your help, but do come in and tell me more.’ She stood aside and I moved past her into the hall.
    â€˜First door on the right,’ she said. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll put the kettle on.’
    I went into the living room. There was a couch against the window and a couple of easy chairs, both threadbare. The room was lined with bookcases. Every bit of wall space was taken up with rows and rows of books. It was like a library. I squeezed past the coffee table in front of the couch and sat down. The air was dusty, the smell of musty paper thick in the room. It was wonderful, calm, reassuring.
    I looked at the books on the shelves. Mrs Atkins came in with a teapot and two cups on a tray. She moved carefully, as if afraid of breaking herself, put the tray down and sat with a small sigh. I poured the tea and she didn’t protest. She took a cup, sat back and closed her eyes. There was a bowl of old-fashioned sugar cubes. I liked their hardness beneath my fingers. I put four lumps into my tea. On impulse, I dropped one into the top pocket of my shirt. Mrs Atkins sipped her tea, leaned forward and put the cup back on the coffee table.
    â€˜You’re sick,’ I said.
    She gave a small laugh. ‘Well, Michael,’ she said. ‘You’re not wrong there. I think I can safely say that.’
    â€˜I can help you.’
    â€˜I don’t need your help, Michael. My husband gives me all the help I need.’
    â€˜I don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘I mean I can help with your illness.’
    She looked at me and there was a twinkle in her eyes.
    â€˜My illness?’ she said. ‘Well, Michael, that is indeed kind of you. But I’m afraid there is not much you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’ve consulted more doctors than you have probably seen in your entire life. So I appreciate your offer, but . . .’
    â€˜You have a brain tumour,’ I said.
    The twinkle disappeared. She turned to face me and I saw the beginnings of anger in her eyes.
    â€˜Has my husband been talking to you? If he has been talking about me to his students . . .’
    â€˜I can see it, Mrs Atkins,’ I said. I could too. There was a dark mass under her skull, above her right eye. ‘If you’ll just sit back and close your eyes, I’ll get rid of it.’
    For a moment I thought her anger was going to