Dreamrider by Barry Jonsberg Page B

flare. Emotions struggled across her face. Then, abruptly, she smiled and her face cleared. Maybe I wanted her to see me as a harmless lunatic. Maybe I’d decided she had nothing left to lose, not even dignity.
    â€˜Faith healing, is it, Michael?’
    â€˜Something like that,’ I said.
    She leaned back and closed her eyes, the smile still there. I put my hands on her skull. It felt frail, as if with only a little pressure I could break through bone and tissue and put my hands on the brain beneath. And that’s what I did. I pressed gently and my hands parted flesh and bone like water. I could feel the tumour beneath my fingers. It felt hard and there was something about it that made my skin crawl.
    I moved my hands around the growth and felt its attachment to the tissue beneath. I could also sense rather than feel the other knots of cancer spreading from it, an infection staining her brain.
    I can’t explain how I did it. In the Dream things work differently. I didn’t tear the cancer away. I willed it to be gone. I put my mind into my hands. Gradually, the tumour separated from the healthy tissue and gathered in my palms. When I was sure I had it all, I removed my hands. The skull flowed beneath my fingers and closed behind them. The whole thing took less than a minute. Mrs Atkins lay with her eyes closed, a dreamy look on her face.
    â€˜It’s done, Mrs Atkins,’ I said. ‘It’s gone.’
    She opened her eyes and her expression was dazed. She put her hands slowly to her head. I knew something felt different to her. An expression of wonder passed across her face, like a burden had been lifted. Or maybe something added. Wholeness, perhaps, or a sense of cleanliness where before there had been contamination. She shook her head slightly and her fingers clenched. She stared at me.
    â€˜It has gone, Mrs Atkins,’ I said. ‘Believe me.’
    Not that her belief had anything to do with it.
    â€˜Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time,’ I said. ‘I’d best get back to school.’
    She rose carefully, but I could tell she was surprised by how easy it was. We walked to the door.
    â€˜You’re a strange boy, Michael,’ she said. Then she put out her hand and I shook it. ‘But I want to thank you. Truly.’
    â€˜Take care, Mrs Atkins,’ I said.
    I walked off. I needed to get back to my body, lying under a tree on the school oval. I could have done that instantly, but I didn’t feel like it. I walked back slowly, feeling the sunshine on my legs and arms. My body was singing.
    When I reached the edge of the school oval I could see, in the distance, my huddled shape under the tree. I had done this many times, but there was always a jolt, a sense of overwhelming strangeness, when I closed on my sleeping body. I walked on until I was standing over myself. Mounds of flesh hung under my chin. My T-shirt was slightly rucked, exposing rolls of pale belly. I saw myself the way others saw me and I shared their disgust. I was disgusting. That’s why the Dream is so good. I can be what I want to be. Back in that huge, unwieldy body I am trapped. But in the end, there’s never a choice. I always have to return.
    I turned to face what couldn’t be avoided. The glass filled my vision, an expanse of darkness. The urge to reach out and touch its surface was irresistible. In my mind, I could see the ripples I would create, my hand stirring its curve, sinking, finger by finger, into black depths. I could see my hand stretch slowly towards it.
    But I knew what would happen, what always happened. Maybe I got closer this time. It seemed that each Dream brought my fingers closer to the surface, that it was only a matter of time before I would touch it. More – that it was important, even vital, to make contact. The flash of yellow came from the top right-hand corner. My hand flinched as if from a flame. Beads of perspiration broke out on my