In Dreams Wake

There’s a curious phenomenon when traveling where a person will go long distances without realizing how they got there. Be it the passenger or even the one piloting, the journey will have become so repetitive or rote that they will become lost in their own thoughts, only surfacing to the real world in brief glimpses.

For those on the ocean liner it was almost a surprise when Boston Harbor appeared on the horizon, despite it being their destination. As the days on the ocean passed all that could be clearly remembered of the trip was the smell of seafoam and a headful of melancholy piano notes. The rest could only be described in vague impressions, like being a smudge on a maritime painting, captured in a single moment of what sailing could be like.

A crewman was patrolling the upper deck of the ship as they prepared for their arrival. Ahead on the edge of the platform someone was leaning over the railing at the bow of the vessel, staring intently at the shapes on the horizon. The sailor quickly went up and pulled the man back, stirring him from the thoughts he was swimming in.

“Leanin’ a bit too far over there lad, don’t want nobody tumblin’ over the side,” the crewman said.

The young man gave him a placating grin. “Sorry, it’s just nice to see something other than seawater after so long.”

“Ah, that's common for those crossin’ the Atlantic first time. Careful, yeah? Want to keep the same number of people we started with.” An amused glimmer in his eyes, the sailor let go of the other man’s arm and returned to his duties.

As the ship neared the mainland the sensations of civilization began returning. First the ambient hum of the city, then the movements of vehicles and crowds in the distance, and at last the wall of fumes that hit the passengers as the boat docked.

Departing down the gangway, the young man looked up at the Custom House Tower. He had read about it before the trip, but he wasn’t prepared for just how tall it was. He had never seen a structure so tall. It was the first indicator that he’d entered a completely new world.

In a few hours the building’s shadow would completely cover the jetty, but for now the afternoon sun fully shone over the bustling travelers and luggage. The man made his way over to the pile of belongings, but before he began to sift through it he saw a red-haired woman waiting to the side. She held a sign in front of her with the Barclay name emblazoned on it.

“Hello Miss,” he called as he approached her.

The woman’s eyes darted to him, an inquisitiveness held within their green gaze. “You must be Beckham Barclay?”

“Yes Ma’am. Are you here on behalf of my uncle Rowan?”

“Indeed. I’m Amelia, Mr. Barclay’s personal assistant. I’ll be helping you get settled.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Amelia. I just need to grab my suitcase and we can be on our way.”

“Your possessions have already been packed into the buggy,” she said, gesturing to the vehicle on the roadside of the dock.

The car was a beautifully crafted coupe with an emerald finish, the pinnacle of 1920’s automobiles. A chauffeur was waiting beside the passenger door. Beckham was used to the standard taxis that English cities offered, so the extravagance of the personal driver caught him off-guard. “I see, Very well.”

Amelia led the way through the rest of the crowd who were still trying to reorganize themselves after the long journey. The chauffeur opened the back door of the vehicle as they approached, and Beckham ducked in. With a soft thud the door shut, muffling the clamor of the harbor. His luggage rested on the seat beside him, and after a moment the passenger door opened and Amelia climbed into the front.

“I trust your trip across the pond went smoothly?” she asked.

“It went as expected,” Beckham replied. The driver entered, and pulled the car away from the curb into the Boston traffic. “It couldn’t have been longer than a week, but much of it was pretty fuzzy, I have to admit. A lot of things blur together out at sea.”

She nodded. “I’ve heard that from a lot of seafarers. You should try and relax for a few days, you’ll feel rejuvenated in no time.”

Glancing out of the window, the structures loomed over their entourage like cliffs over the beach. None were as tall as the Custom House, but still soared upwards of six stories. While some of the buildings appeared to have a long history, many of the edifices looked clean; the metropolises he was familiar with were covered by soot and smoke stains. His closest comparison was London, where all was blackened by age. That city felt like standing in an ancient forest, but this one had the look of a newly minted coin.

“There are plenty of things to do around the city,” she continued. “This time of year the gardens near the Commons should be in full bloom, and I believe a traveling carnival has set up recently over there, if that’s to your fancy. The nightlife can be quite lively too, if you know where to look.”

“Miss Amelia –”

“Please, just Amelia is fine.”

“I appreciate the recommendations, but I’m afraid my studies will occupy much of my time.”

The woman gave him a sidelong look from the front. “Barclays are all the same, apparently; only room for academics and nothing else. I swear Nora, our house-lady, will have a fit if there’s more than one person stuck in a study all day, so you’d best find some time in that busy schedule of yours for leisure.”

Beckham let out a chuckle. “I’m not much of a tourist, but I can be easily convinced to spend time in the city. My father warned me of Mr. Rowan’s work habits, so I assumed that would bleed into his lecturing and expectations of me as well.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue since Rowan will only be handling a fraction of your lessons. He has many capable acolytes who you’ll be studying under as well, and none are as married to their work as Rowan is.”

A slight frown creased the man’s brow. “The impression I got from the correspondence was that Mr. Rowan would be my main tutor. He is the expert, after all.”

“If that’s the case, then I apologize on his behalf.” Amelia turned in her seat to face him, her lips curved into an apologetic smile. “I don’t doubt he explicitly communicated that to you, but among those in his service he is known to over-promise and not take into consideration his other arrangements. Yes, Rowan is the most versed in his psychology niche, but that means many seek him for his knowledge. Harvard, the state house, the Museum of Fine Arts, all of those institutions and more vie for his attention.”

“There’s no need for an apology. It was a poor assumption on my part.” His attention shifted back to the world outside of the car. They were in the midst of an intersection, roads cutting out from the main thoroughfare like spokes on a broken wheel. He realized that many looked terribly similar. He doubted he would be able to figure out where they were, the chaos of the urban design contrasting sharply with the orderly appearance of the streets and buildings.

“Regardless of how involved he will be during your apprenticeship, Rowan will be meeting you when we arrive at the estate,” Amelia continued. “However, that does bring us back to the topic of free time. Surely there are places you intend to visit around Boston while you have the opportunity?”

“There are, but I don’t mind planning that out myself.” His hands settled stiffly in his lap.

“We have plenty of connections in the city, it wouldn’t inconvenience us to help make an itinerary for you. Come now, Beckham.”

“You can call me Beck, Miss – I mean, Amelia. Everyone I know uses that nickname back home, it’s less of a mouthful. As for activities...” An awkward smile cracked his face. “Theater is my hobby, if there are any showhouses that you recommend.”

“Do you do any acting of your own?” she asked. Her tone was so straight that Beck couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not.

“Heavens no! When I’m the center of attention I become a statue, I’d be a terrible actor.”

“That’s curious; usually those who enjoy theater have at least a passing interest in participating as well. So what draws you to it?”

Beck thought for a moment. “The way that it uses storytelling is the main reason, I think. I do enjoy a good book, but there’s much more to read in a performance. A written story must go to great lengths to describe the mindset of a character, but a single expression or action can say a multitude of things. Performers show their thoughts and feelings without an uttered word.”

She nodded. “If I were to guess, your appreciation for characters helped lead to your interest in psychology?”

Before he could respond, the automobile turned through a wrought-iron gate and started climbing an immaculately gardened hill. At the top stood a manor, its sandstone-colored edifice glowing in the mid-afternoon sun. Two wings spread from either side of the main building, making the structure a wall that blotted out the horizon. The property surrounding it was just as manicured as the main drive; Beck noted gardeners attending the shrubbery and footpaths leading off into the landscape. Given the hill the estate sat on, he was surprised that he hadn’t noticed it until the manor was on top of him. The lavishness around him made his mouth run dry.

“Is this where Mr. Rowan does his work?”

Amelia’s lips formed a shallow smirk. “Welcome to the Barclay Estate, where Rowan and his company live. And yes, he does his business here too.”

The allusions Amelia made and the vehicle they traveled in should have tipped him off, but it was strange to Beck that someone in his family had this much wealth, let alone that he never knew about it. His family was well-off, but the opulence before him made the house back home seem like an apartment. As the automobile circled to the entrance the thought entered his mind that it didn’t seem possible a man of science could have this much money. When it came to a stop, Beck had already reconciled that point with the fact that his uncle was working in an exciting new field, and that tended to attract a lot of eager investors.

While the chauffeur was letting him out of the back, a butler was already gathering his belongings from the other side. Beck looked up at the grand entrance where a small chandelier hung from the ceiling and pointed down at a dark wooden door. Swinging inward, a maidservant gestured them inside.

“How many staff do you have?” he asked numbly.

“Enough to run a small army. We get a lot of people flowing through here, so the space is necessary. All of the East Wing is dedicated to Rowan’s research, the West Wing is staff quarters.”

“And the main building?”

“Rooms we are allowed to show guests,” she simply replied.

Beck stepped over the threshold into the largest foyer he’d ever seen. The size of a ballroom, it rose a few stories into a vaulted ceiling where intricate chandeliers that put the one outside to shame hung in countless rows. In the distance staircases rose to the second floor that was opened up into a balcony stretching the width of the room.

“Surely not all of the rooms are this enormous?”

“While that would be amusing, it would be impractical to have a washroom this big. This space is used for visits and entertainment, in the rare case Rowan decides to host an event. He wanted partygoers to stay in close proximity to the front door so we wouldn’t need to collect people from spaces they shouldn’t be in.”

She guided him across the room and up the right stairwell. On the second floor a table for dining overlooked the entry. The setup was dwarfed by the rest of the balcony, whose emptiness gave the table the appearance of floating on a blank page. At the back of the main room was a hallway, where doors began to appear on either side. Where the corridor reached a bend Amelia entered a door at the corner.

Beck stepped into what he assumed to be his uncle’s library. On opposite walls bookcases soared to the ceiling, over five meters high. Facing a wall of windows was a great oak desk which seemed to occupy half of the floor, the other half of which was covered by an ornate rug of foreign design. After a glance around, he noticed that the room was full of all sorts of exotic oddities. Between stretches of book spines were artifacts that didn’t seem to have any relation to Rowan’s field of work: a Victorian diving helmet, a small hoop with string and feathers twined into a spiderweb of sorts, a vestibule inlaid with gold and blue-colored materials, and a strange black box which Beck didn’t know the purpose of.

A man was standing with his back to them, occupied with something sitting on the desk.

“Rowan, sorry for the interruption,” Amelia said. “Beckham has arrived.”

“Ah, very good! Come over, I can multitask,” Rowan replied, not turning.

Beck walked over to the side of the desk. Looking at his uncle’s face, he immediately recognized the family resemblance; he had the same scholarly look his father had, with his short beard and nose permanently dimpled from his spectacles. Rowan didn’t look up to greet him, but kept his eyes trained on the globe beneath his hand. He moved it delicately, tracing some unknown voyage across the world.

“Hello sir,” Beck said.

Rowan grinned down at the Atlantic. “There’s no need for long-winded introductions, nephew. You can call me Uncle. Rowan is fine, too. Hopefully you’ve found your accommodations suitable?”

“We haven’t spoken with Nora yet,” Amelia said.

“I see. Can you fetch me the Encyclopedia Britannica?”

Beck blinked back his confusion as Amelia spoke up again. “Which volume?”

“The same one as last time,” was his curt response. “Since you’re here Beckham, let’s hold our first lecture at 2 o’clock.”

“It’s already half-past, Rowan,” Amelia said, as though this were a usual conversation.

However it certainly wasn’t what Beck expected. His father was a quiet man, but when he talked it was in the same logical manner as any other civilized person. Beck had expected an introduction, or a preamble of some kind, but Rowan blundered through his sentences like a bull. Beck was still trying to stitch his uncle’s last two sentences together into a form that made sense, but quickly decided he couldn’t. He realized it must have been the exhaustion from his travels that was messing with his head. It would be better to follow his assistant’s lead, in any case.

When he emerged from his thoughts though, there was still dead air between them. Amelia stood with her hands clasped, waiting on her master. His uncle remained silent for an uncomfortable amount of time, enraptured in the globe as he continued to trail his fingers across it. Finally he straightened and stepped back, noticing Amelia for the first time.

“Did you say something?”

“Rowan, check the time,” she said.

He reached into his shirt and flipped open the pocket watch he produced. “Ah. It’s much later than I thought. Time is slipping by me, as usual,” Rowan said, giving Amelia an bemused smile before his brow furrowed. “Where’s the book I asked for?”

“I wasn’t here the last time you were doing whatever this is,” she waved her arms in front of her.

Rowan looked out the window on the opposite end of the room, contemplating the courtyard beyond. After a moment he broke from his stupor. “You’re right, I’ll get it myself.”

He scrambled over to a section of the bookcase where a long ribbon trailed from one of the upper shelves. Beck’s heart fluttered when Rowan tugged on it and a hefty volume flew down. His uncle caught it in his arms before it crashed to the floor, and the words that had caught in Beck’s throat were let out as an undignified murmur.

"Let's try for an evening lesson," Rowan said, fiddling with the top of the ribbon. Beck noticed that it was sandwiched between the pages like a bookmark, and had intricate stitched patterns down its length. "Amelia, will a 5 o'clock appointment allow enough time for Beckham to settle in?"

“We can make it work,” she said on Beck’s behalf.

“Good, good,” he muttered, then turned his attention to the book. Pulling the tassel slowly through the book like a sieve, Rowan put his nose to the cover and examined the patterns as they emerged from the pages.

After a few moments of this bizarre ritual, Amelia made a motion to Beck for them to leave. However, wanting to contribute at least something to the odd conversation, he asked, “What will we be studying first?”

His uncle looked up with surprise, before a genuine smile crossed his face. “We’ll be discovering the machine no human hands have touched and grabbing the controls. We’ll be solving the questions for which there are no answers, treading the worlds that haven’t been found, decoding the messages there are no languages for, establishing rules where none could exist before. All of these mysteries are within the human psyche, yes, but understanding them will reshape your perception of reality itself until it is as simple as reading words on a page.”

The description pulled at the back of Beck’s mind, a thrill that broke through the doubt that his first impressions of his uncle had begun to erect. Something close to the excitement he had when he first learned of this trip began to stir in him as Amelia once again signaled for them to leave. While they turned away, Rowan returned to his peculiar inspection like nothing eloquent had left his lips.

After passing back into the hallway, she spoke in a hushed voice, “You’ll have to forgive his mannerisms, he’s usually not this abrasive. Rowan is rather eccentric and can be off-putting at times, but he is one of the greatest minds of this generation.”

“I’m sure there was no malice behind the way he was acting. It’s something I’ll grow used to,” he replied.

Although his uncle’s final explanation gave him hope for a worthwhile apprenticeship, Beck couldn’t quite shake the images of the man back in the room who was lost somewhere inside himself. From his studies he knew behavioral quirks like the ones his uncle demonstrated weren’t uncommon in geniuses. The same could also be said for those who were mad. He very much hoped his uncle was one of the former.