The Dreamkeeper

Midori had heard stories of the man they called Batuu, but for some reason she never shared a shift with him before this. Her father, Shinpei Mifune, spoke of Unmei, the incarnation of fate, and one customer, eyes red from meth, had once told her: “I think that he's the Master of the Beggar of Fate.” He being Batuu in this case. Midori always thought there was a strange logic to the brains of drug addicts. That was why she listened to Batuu when he told her his customers called him the Dreamkeeper, and that he could read dreams.

“Go on,” Midori said, grinning.

The short, bald man smiled back at her, and said: “I was born in a world of dreams. That gives me the power to read dreams. I can understand them perfectly, and that's why, I'm pretty sure, my customers love me so much.” He tapped the side of his acne-scarred nose. “Plus, I'm very good at stopping thieves. It is my passion.”

He was so short that she wondered if he was actually a Little Person, but she seemed to remember that he would have short fingers as a result. If he had a beard, he would have been a Tolkien-esque dwarf. There was something elven to his face, as if he had the faintest hint of pointy ears.

She was being disrespectful. Little People had enough shit with people comparing them to faeries and elves. Instead, she wanted to think of Batuu as Unmei, or a shade of him, and by the domain of fate he knew the domain of dreams.

“I could bring you the same happiness I bring my customers,” Batuu said from his register.

“I'm sorry?” Midori asked. She was thinking of Friday night, when she wanted to try to make her date. She really hoped Eleanor could cover her.

“Do you have recurring dreams that haunt you? I could help explain them to you.”

“That's kind of you, Batuu—”

“Please, that is an old name. Call me the Dreamkeeper. I keep Dreams, but in my old life in the dream-world, I was a Shopkeeper as I am now—and thus, being the Shopkeeper of Dreams, I am the Dreamkeeper.”

“Did you sell dreams in this old life?” Midori laughed. She figured he probably read a lot of hipster poetry on his downtime—she seemed to remember someone saying something to that effect.

“Sometimes. If it was what my clients desired. I could whip up such beautiful dreams, dreams with complexity you've never seen the likes of before.”

“I dunno.” Again a laugh came into her voice. “I have been having this recurring thing going on...”

“How long?”

She thought about it. As she did, her grin was usurped by a frown. “Since early childhood, I think.” The words came slowly and unsteadily. She was starting to feel weird, and she had the feeling, inexpressible in a conscious sense, that this small man she'd just met had something to do with it. The store seemed to stand still, and all the customers mercifully seemed to vanish.

“And how often do you have this dream?”

She blinked. “Every night.”

He leaned back, his dark eyes surveying her face carefully. “Tell me.”

“Are you sure? It's really long.”

“We have time.”

She trusted him. Despite having known him for such a short time, there was something in his countenance that was like the memory of summer sunshine.

And that sunshine, as pure as it was in dreams, got her going.

“In its earliest versions, the dream starts in a small town or suburb just outside of my own town. I live in the Cities though, so I have no idea where this place is. I can see a small tan-orange building shrouded off by itself off the side of the road under the shadows of a few trees. The left side specifically. I think this building is a bank but it might just be a work-station for a construction site. I sometimes feel like I've gone in there, and that the man who owns it is really pissed that someone went in there. I think there's something in the basement too, but I never figure it. But maybe that's another dream.” She paused. “I'm sorry, I don't know if I can do this. There's the old joke that no one wants to hear someone's dumb dream about places they don't know...”

“I know all places in dreams,” the Dreamkeeper replied.

“Okay, fine, be that way.” Midori cleared her throat. “I travel down the highway away from this building. I know the road leads up onto a bridge. Following this bridge over a high pass I go through a long empty area, full of dust and scraggly grass, and very few trees. There is a large mall here, kind of like MOA but smaller. Part of the wall is glass. Inside, long rows of honeycomb-like cells stretch out meaninglessly, a collection of stores. I think I've been to this Mall once, with my mom, but she doesn't remember it and usually neither do I, except for in this dream. There's a bookstore in there where I read Spooky Tales and other dumb shit they published for kids back in the '90s. At least I think this is where I got those books.

“I get back on the road and keep going, on elevated roads—perhaps more bridges. Eventually the trees come up, a vast forest, and the roads meet the ground again. The road here is badly maintained. Here several things happen.

“Sometimes, if it's day, I start passing over a high patch of ground, flanked on both sides by sharp edged valleys full of weeds and brush. A white car is coming towards me and the road is too narrow to take traffic going both ways. Sometimes I make it. Sometimes I swerve, and the last thing I see before I'm trapped down in the valley is the smiling hat-shadowed face of the black-suited man inside...”

“If it's night, I pass through the woods and there are no sharp dips on the sides of the road. But there is the black car that comes up behind me. Same driver as the white one, I'm sure, but this time his coat and hat and darker and he only has a smile. He laughs at me out his window as he chases me at 60, 70, 80 miles an hour. We round a long bend and here the dream forks again. If I crash, I wander out into the trees, even though I know that in all nightmares if you end up in the woods at night you're gonna get your bones picked clean by whatever's out there. I just remember coming up to a red door, and I realize the red is because the door's covered in blood. The only way out of the woods is through that door, and as I open it I see something wriggling inside.

“If I don't crash, then I make it out to The Town. Originally the town was small. There was a handful of houses, a police station-slash-fire station-slash-town hall, and a church. And the old school up on the hill.

“Sometimes I decide to just pass through the town, and see what's on the other side. I pass by the school and even though it's late at night the lights are in. I can see inside the basement. The students, all girls, all wear uniforms. They stare at me out the window in a single crowd with solemn, unblinking stares as I pass by.

“But most of the time I stop in the town. Sometimes for a very long time—years and years, after I stop at a cabin in the glen on the impossibly steep hill, which the black car chases me up like he's herding me there. And though I'm happy in my small isolated cabin eventually there is a neighborhood, and around me there come these hillbillies, fat, drunken, and barely dressed, who just find ways to mock me and mess up my house in petty ways, like pissing on my lawn or pouring beer on it. I'm never welcome on the hill or in town. Sometimes I live in town, in a small apartment off the side of the main road. There are four borders to the town, and this is the western one; across the street from my apartment are a flower shop and a used appliance shop that also sells video tapes. At the north edge of town I walk along the street that stood outside the front of my old middle school, and there's an arcade across from a second school, separate from the one with the demon girls, where the kids sneak out between classes and play busted up pinball machines covered with images of racist caricatures. I've seen the prizes, and there's only pairs of fuzzy dice.

“I can see the spire of the church from the central square—a park of sorts—in the middle of town. I've never been in it, but it's tall and bony, stretched up high like too much of the town. Banks and gift shops ring this central plaza.

“The south end doesn't have much, but the east end is built partly into the cliffside that the highway leads up into, out of town. The first school is up at the top of this cliff, and several houses are built on ledges stretching out from the rock face, but there don't seem to be roads or paths leading up to these houses. Isn't that odd?

“South of these cliffs there's a path out of town, past an old fish shop. It leads through a thin birch forest to a small beach that wraps around a lake. The lake goes on and on like the ocean, and there's a large black tower on the beach. No matter what, this tower is always my final destination.

“It's a lighthouse, I'm sure, but the light's only there to lead me to it. It's what's underneath that counts—there's a basement below that lighthouse. It's like the basement underneath that orange-tan building from the start of my journey. Whatever is in the basement in something best left undiscovered, but this, whatever it is...it's evil. Pure evil. The worst evil I've ever known, and it feels—well, it feels more than mortal. It feels demonic. I think it's Satan himself sealed up underneath this tower.”

The Dreamkeeper asked, “Is that all?”

“Sometimes I get to go back home, along that road over the cliff. There is a large path flanked by lines of trees with a river on the right-hand side. It's a long drive, but I feel safe having left the town. Sometimes I stop off at a small beaten up grocery store run by an old Iraqi woman, and I buy banana candy, and that makes me feel even better.”

“I see.” He closed his eyes. Then, suddenly, they snapped open.

“Hey!”

He turned sharply to the right. Down Aisle 5, there was someone sneaking a candy bar into the crotch of their pants. “You gotta pay for that!” the Dreamkeeper snarled. “C'mon, get over here! Get over here now!”

Slowly, humbly, the hunched young individual came over, sweat dribbling down their forehead. Midori didn't get a good look at them, but they placed the candy bar on the counter obediently and slipped Batuu two dollars. “That's better,” he said. “Always pay, when I'm cashiering. Always.”

Midori looked down at the clock. “Ah, hey, I'm down to my last five. What's your thoughts on my long dream?”

“I think that you are due for a long journey, Midori Mifune. A very long one. Go on the trip from your dream. Find that bank and start there.”

“I wish it were that easy. I need to get time off from work. I already asked for a day off to go on a date.”

“Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Call in sick Saturday. Then, find that bank and go traveling. Go to your Town and learn what sort of evil you have to face.”

She blushed and grinned. “I can't.”

“You can. In fact...I think you must.”

“But what do you mean, I have to face the evil? It's terrifying. I wake up sweating every time. I don't want to go down into that tower.”

“But there's a thrill to it, isn't there?” He squinted, deep in focus. “A thrill to the horror...a power. A knowledge of safety. Maybe that's the dream-layer, keeping you safe, like it's a movie or video game. Maybe it is dangerous to cross that limit. But you still know, deep down, that that thrill will carry over—and it will be worth it to know the face of your destiny.”

She blinked, and somehow, her five minutes were up. And that was all he said.

“Alright, well, I'm gonna head out. I'll see what I can do. Thanks for listening, in any case,” she said.

“It's no trouble,” the Dreamkeeper replied. “I hope you enjoy your weekend.”

As she went up to the breakroom, he leaned up, trying to crack his vertebrae. That was when he saw the young white boy from earlier, now in Aisle 4, piling on the ramen. Turning his light off, the Dreamkeeper strode quickly over to him, fuming.

The young man thought he heard the brief clash of some distant music when he was aware of the short man's presence at the end of the aisle. When he turned, he saw that orbs of strange white light surrounded Batuu's hands.

“I WASN'T KIDDING WHEN I SAID PAY! NOW YOU'LL PAY THE ULTIMATE PRICE!”

From those spheres of light, there came long, web-like strands, which stuck into the thief's skin and clothing as soon as they connected. With a flick of his wrist and before either of them knew it, the Dreamkeeper sent small globes of light down the length of the energy-strands. They came in rhythmic pulses, beating against the thief until their white light consumed him.

What happened within that white light, only Batuu could say.