Lair of Dreams

Page 47

Far above them, Ling and Henry could hear muted hoofbeats and the clatter of omnibuses rumbling down unseen streets. But these sounds came and went, like postcards of sound sent long ago and only now arriving at their destination.
“Well, this is certainly interesting,” Henry said.
They’d come to an iron gate, the bars of which had been fashioned with steel roses. The faintest glow seeped through them, warm and golden.
“Do you see that?” Henry whispered. “I’ve never seen light like that in a dream walk before. It’s always…”
“Gray,” Ling finished.
“Yes,” Henry said and smiled. Being with Ling was like traveling in a foreign country and finding the one person who speaks your native language.
Ling tested the bars with her fingertips. “The gate. It’s… cold,” she said, more in astonishment than fear.
“Shall we go inside?” Henry asked.
At Ling’s nod, he lifted the latch and pushed open the gate.
Henry had seen many odd things in dreams before—noblemen with owl faces peeking above their ruffled shirts. Trees made entirely of fireflies. Steamer ships resting on mountaintops. But he’d never seen anything quite so realistic or beautiful as the lovely old train station where he and Ling found themselves now. This was nothing like the mundane subway, with its creaking wooden turnstiles and harried New Yorkers rushing and pushing. It was as if they were trespassing in some wealthy, eccentric aristocrat’s private underground lair. High above their heads, a herringbone pattern of cream-colored brick fanned out in an undulating plain of cathedral-worthy arches. White-hot gas flickered behind the frosted-glass globes of four brass chandeliers. The light spilled across the smooth surface of a fountain whose water seemed frozen in time. The waiting area boasted a velvet settee, three gooseneck lamps, a colorful Persian rug, and an assortment of fine leather chairs more suited to a library than a train platform. There was even a grand piano with a goldfish bowl resting on its broad back. The entire room had a warm amber glow to it—except for the subway tunnel, which was as dark as funeral bunting.
“Where are we?” Ling asked. She tapped the goldfish bowl and was rewarded with the tiniest quiver of orange.
“I don’t know. But it’s glorious!” Henry said, grinning. He sat at the piano. “Any requests?”
Ling scoffed. “You must be joking.”
“I don’t know that one, but if you hum a few bars…” Henry said, noodling around on the keys. “Now this is the elephant’s eyebrows. Elephant’s eyebrows is in the same dictionary as pos-i-tute-ly, by the way.”
Ling took the gleaming wooden stairs down to the passenger-loading platform and walked to the tunnel’s entrance. An arc of gas-jet bulbs, long dead, ringed the brick opening.
“Beach Pneumatic Transit Company,” Ling whispered, reading the plaque on the wall.
“I don’t suppose the dead are here to tell you which way I should go to find Louis,” Henry called from the piano.
“No,” Ling said. Her voice carried faintly. “Hello,” she said, more forcefully, and it echoed: Hello, lo, lo. A thread of wind caressed Ling’s face. There was a faint hiss and a pop of blue flame as, all at once, the gaslight bulbs blazed white-hot. A ghost of sound came from inside the tunnel—the whine of metal against metal.
“What’s that?” Henry leaped up from the piano and bounded down the stairs to Ling’s side.
A bright light pierced the tunnel’s darkness. The whine grew louder. A small wooden train car rattled down the dusty tracks, its oracular headlamp bright as noonday sun as it whooshed into the station and squeaked to a stop. The doors sighed open. Henry poked his head in, then turned back to Ling with a grin. “Ling, you’ve got to see this.”
They peered in, gawking at the mahogany paneling and two plush seats, the delicate kerosene lamps resting on end tables.
“Come on,” Henry said, climbing inside.
“What are you doing?” Ling cautioned.
“What if this takes us to our mysterious dreamer? What if this is somehow Louis’s crazy dream?” Henry’s pale, freckled face was so serious. “I’ve tried everything else. I have to know. Please. We can always wake up, Ling.”
“All right,” Ling agreed after a pause. “We can always wake up.”
The moment they were aboard, the doors slid shut and the train moved backward with a lurch, throwing Henry and Ling onto the seats. Ling closed her eyes and silently reminded herself: It’s only a dream. It’s only a dream. Soon enough, the train came to a gentle stop. The doors opened onto a misty wood marked by skeletal trees. It lacked the detail of the old New York streets and the pretty train station.