In Dreams Wake

“Rough morning?” Fielding asked, seeing the sullen look on Beck’s face.

“Moreso the last couple of days.” He took a seat at the lecture room’s table, glancing at the knapsack resting at the corner. “You’ll have to forgive me, I haven’t gotten much sleep since I arrived so I may have a hard time focusing on your lesson today.”

The man looked down at him with concern. “Nora can help if there are any accommodations you need for your room. She’s also good with natural remedies, perhaps she can create something to keep you more alert or help you stay asleep.”

“I don’t think Nora and I are on the best of terms right now, I’d rather not push my luck.”

Fielding put on a reassuring smile. “She is always in a sour mood, I wouldn’t take it personally. I don’t think you’ll ever manage to annoy her more than Rowan does.”

“I’ve never seen them argue,” Beck said.

“You’ve probably only seen them together at mealtimes, then. Those times are a ceasefire between the two. And Nora is usually the one doing the arguing, Rowan just has made a habit of ignoring her.” He waved his hand. “But if you think some distance is a good idea, you’re in luck. The lesson for today is more hands on.” Fielding reached into his pack and pulled out a flyer, handing it to his student.

Beck glanced over the gilded text, his eyes narrowing. "'Xander's Band of Mystique: Discover wonders beyond your wildest dreams!’ What’s this about?”

“It’s a vaudeville troupe that is beginning to set up on The Commons. Rowan and I agreed a good project related to your studies would be to investigate and analyze their culture. We want you to go down there, make conversation with the performers and report back."

He looked back down at the paper as he fought to contain an incredulous laugh.

"Is something the matter?" Fielding asked.

"This seems a transparent way of getting me out of my uncle's hair."

His teacher shook his head. "Rowan and I planned this ever since we found the circus was arriving. Vaudeville is an amalgamation of cultures and lifestyles concentrated into a single people, a unique subset to study in their own right. More importantly, they're one of the few groups of people that keep folklore and superstition alive in the modern age. This is a prime opportunity to apply what we studied yesterday and pull out the archetypes found in their beliefs."

He got up and paced down the corridor-like room. One by one he unclenched his fingers. “I didn’t come here to study anthropology.”

“If you think this is a form of punishment, you’re mistaken. Our company has wanted to travel down to the Commons but are unable to. Complicated would be putting the situation lightly.”

Beck gave him a curious look, but remained silent.

“Since you don’t have history in the area, you will be our envoy,” Fielding continued. “We never do things without purpose here, remember that.”

Beck settled back into the chair. The garish slip of paper was the only thing before him now. Yesterday it was reams of information cataloging ancient civilizations from around the world. Yet he couldn’t keep his mind off the cabin from his first night, beckoning him to a reality beyond his understanding.

“Alright, I’ll go,” he said reluctantly.

Fielding clapped his hands. “Excellent, I’ll go fetch Amelia so she can take you there. Go prepare yourself if needed, and she’ll meet you out front.”

The buildings that passed by were all unfamiliar. Beck expected to remember at least one landmark from his initial drive through Boston, but all of the roads seemed to twist in on themselves in unnatural patterns. The volume of vehicles and pedestrians obscured any edifices he might have recognized. He was happy that he wasn’t the one who needed to navigate this maze.

“Is it always this mad driving through the city?” He asked over to Amelia.

“Usually more so,” was her response. She weaved the vehicle around a group of workers standing in the road before swerving back into the lane. “It probably doesn’t need to be said, but we strongly discourage anyone from trying to walk between the manor and the city proper.”

"Is there not a map available?"

"There is, but you can’t rely on them in a city that’s ever changing. Especially not in a place like this; most areas spread out, this one grows inward.”

He stared back out to the soaring buildings, unpacking her words. "Surely the urban system could have been organized better?”

“Once the foundation is laid, people can only add to what already exists. These streets were designed for horses and foot traffic, the builders never considered machines that would take their place. Rarely can someone prepare for what they don’t know,” she commented.

Shortly, the walls on either side gave way to an open field. Beck stared in disbelief as rolling hills and trees passed by on one side and the metropolis on the other. They glided along the edge of the landscape until the flags of a big-top tent crested the nearest rise.

“We’re here.” Amelia pulled over to the sidewalk.

Beck stepped out of the vehicle. The acrid scent of the city was at odds with the fauna he saw before him. A strange sensory experience to be sure, but far from the strangest he’d encountered since arriving in the country. The sound of horns came from the opposite side of the hill.

"Don't wander off yet," she said.

He turned and realized his feet had begun traveling towards the music. Amelia handed him a small card containing a phone number.

"It's for the line at the estate, in case you can't find your way back."

“You’re not coming with me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “This is your assignment.”

Beck looked at the open landscape, then back to the vehicle they arrived in. "I think I can find my way back."

“I’ll be waiting here for your return, then,” Amelia said with a hint of a smile.

Beck went towards the horns, the hill presenting itself to him. As he climbed, different layers of sound added to the noise. The percussion of hammers, the melody of voices, and nearing the crest he could just make out the subtle sound of strings underneath. Even though they couldn’t have been orchestrated together, the clamor combined to form an impromptu symphony.

At the top he hesitated, beholding the sight before him. A cloud of dust swirled around the camp, kicked up by a sea of people. Crates, wagons and stages broke up the crowds, their vibrant hues making the grounds a whirlwind of color. In the eye was the great tent striped in royal blue and gold. Its sides were furled, allowing the troupers to bring in seating and equipment. Through the other side he could see the foot traffic extend out until it got lost in the dusty haze.

From above the scene was hypnotic, drawing Beck down into the thick of the crowd. In its midst, visibility became the space directly in front of him. Looking up he could see the tops of the attractions emerge like islands, but making his way directly to one seemed impossible; he was subject to the spiraling current of bodies that he’d seen from the hill, winding through the grounds in a subconsciously agreed-upon order.

As he was swept past the menagerie of displays he was able to capture a few moments of awe: a quintet that entirely consisted of instruments except for one chanting singer, a juggling duo that bounced bottles between each other’s limbs, a man bending a steel rod like it was made of rubber, a group of ladies clad in ribbons and not much else whose dance traced the patterns of the wind. Just as one of the women looked his way and gave him a wink, he was carried off to the next stand.

Knowing he wasn’t just there for the entertainment, Beck spotted an opening between a pavilion and a wagon and exited through it. The space beyond was populated with only a few stragglers, hemmed in from the crowds by the carriages. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the dust and sweat from the masses off his brow.

Now that he had a moment to breathe Beck was able to fully appreciate the craftsmanship of the tents and vehicles around him. The colors he’d seen from afar were much more vivid up close, the fabrics making up the walls around him more saturated than seemed possible. The wagons were constructed like something from the midlands of Europe, and their sides displayed murals of far away and imagined landscapes, making them seem like they had traveled from a folk tale.

One painting in particular caught his eye, and he wandered over to decipher its story. The paneling was coated in blue and turquoise, depicting cliffs overlooking the sea. Nestled on the edge was what looked like a settlement, but made entirely out of the rich fabrics of the tents around him. Campfires colored the canvases vibrant reds and oranges, transforming the village into a dancing flame. Its light wisped up and out of sight like vapor, crawling over the contours of the wagon up to the roof. He stepped back to see where it trailed off.

Beck was roughly pulled to the side by his arm before he could even cry out in surprise. Hands steadied him as a log passed through the space where he had been, carried by two workers off towards the big top.

“Sorry about that, wasn’t gonna be enough time to warn you,” a voice said next to him.

He turned to the man, who smiled warmly at him. “Thanks for taking me out of harm’s way, I must have been lost in my thoughts,” Beck said. “If I’m not meant to be back here then it is entirely my fault.”

The other man chuckled. “Believe me, happens more than you’d think; The daydreaming part, that is. Our group is meant to fill people’s heads with flights of fancy, so we’ll take the compliment.” Their accent was from somewhere deep in Mississippi, making his voice richer than their slight frame and youthful appearance suggested.

“As for trespassing, we’re all on public ground,” the man continued. “Our wagons are the closest that comes to private, but us folk are used to people wandering around our stuff.”

Beck looked around at the other performers idling around the edges of the tents. “This feels more like backstage, I didn’t mean to intrude and break the illusion.”

“If your wonder was broken, then the fault is mine,” the man said, indicating his dark, tousled hair and unbuttoned dress shirt. “I’ve earned the blame, having only just woken up. Hopefully I can bring some of that magic back.” With a hand flourish he took a bow. “I am Zayne the Magnificent, and I’ll perform for you a trick of the eye, mister –”

“My name is Beckham, but you don’t owe me anything.”

“I insist! If only for my own practice and your entertainment.”

Zayne brought his arm back up, a silver coin dancing across the knuckles of his right hand. Catching it between his thumb and forefinger, he quickly deposited the coin into his left hand. Beck watched him slowly unfurl his fingers to reveal the coin had vanished from his palm. Beck raised his eyebrow at the man.

“Something on your mind?” the performer asked with a slight smirk.

“Surely the coin is just in your other hand?” Beck said, pointing to Zayne’s right hand.

The man shrugged and turned his other palm up, revealing only empty air. Zayne’s expression turned to one of confusion as he patted his pockets. “Where did I put it? Ah, right.”

He grabbed the space next to Beck’s head and produced the coin between his fingers. Zayne twirled it between his knuckles again before depositing it into a pocket. “Misplaced it in the ether,” he commented.

Beck eyed him up and down. "Quite impressive! I can't say I know how you did that."

"I can only do parlor tricks when performing off the cuff, with enough preparation there are no barriers to what I can do,” Zayne said with a spark in his eyes. “Now, was there anything specific you’ve visited our humble band to see? If so, I can point you in the right direction.”

“Ah.” Beck shifted his gaze, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’m more of a student than a tourist. I’m researching different cultures and the stories they contain, so I was just browsing all of the sights that vaudeville offers,” he explained, waving his arm around. “And, well, I’m not sure what I’m meant to be looking for,” he added sheepishly. The idea of coming to the circus for that very reason now seemed silly; Beck didn’t know how Fielding had talked him into this.

Zayne regarded him with a curious expression. “I haven’t heard of anyone searching for that when they visit. Our matron, Nan, is the one who tells tales to the rest of our troupe, but I haven’t seen her do it for an outside audience.” He thought for a moment. “Let me ask, I’ll be right back.”

The man broke off and entered the wagon that had enraptured Beck earlier. He waited, not knowing how else to pursue his goal. It wasn’t until minutes later that Zayne returned.

“Well, Nan is out somewhere, but we’re not sure where at the moment,” he said, looking out towards the bustle of the rest of the grounds. “However, my sister reminded me that she would be a good substitute – she’s being trained by Nan herself, you see – and would be willing to answer questions for you.”

“That would be greatly appreciated!” Beck replied.

Zayne held up a finger. “There is a cost for her help. A favor. She is an act too, and after hearing how you indulged me in my own practice, my sister would like you to participate in her own recital.”

“Well, I don’t have any performance skills to speak of –”

“Oh, nothing of that sort!” Zayne assured him. “Her clients are passive in their participation, she merely needs to read your mind!”

If anything, Zayne's reassurance only made Beck more apprehensive. But, having blundered his way this far, declining the offer filled him with an anxiety he couldn't explain.

"I suppose I can volunteer. Where to?"

"Right inside," Zayne said, gesturing into the wagon. Looking up through the narrow doorway, Beck could only see darkness. Reluctantly he stepped up into it.

As the gloom settled around him, he noticed faint pools of candlelight pocketing the shadows. Two of the candles stood at either end of a short table in front of him. Their light revealed a pair of delicate hands resting on the other side of it.

"Welcome, traveler, to my domain," a voice spoke from the dark.

"Hello, Madam," Beck replied.

The hands lifted slightly. "You may call me Florence. Please, take a seat."

As his eyes had been adjusting, an ottoman appeared at his feet. He sat and looked at the woman across from him. Dimly he could see a face. Braids arced over her forehead like curtains, which staged a coy grin.

"What is your name, sir?" She asked.

"It's Beckham, miss."

“Well, Beckham, are you from around here?”

He shook his head. “I’m visiting for the summer.”

The corners of her mouth shifted. “That makes us both travelers in this place, then. You seem the academic type, is that the impetus for your journey?”

“More or less. Does this matter to your craft?”

Her hands laced together, and she brought them up to her chin. “It’s not common for the well-read to find themselves delving into the superstitious.”

Beck instinctively frowned, hoping the shadows masked his expression. "My instructors are unconventional in their teaching methods."

“Curious. Regardless of your reason, the moment has brought you here.” She leaned in. "Let me see your face."

Beck brought his head forward, letting the candles light his contours. He could see Florence scrutinize him. At the same time the background around her slowly came into focus as his eyes continued to adjust. Beads, cloth and twine in various patterns – some that Beck vaguely recognized – hung from the roof around the fortune teller.

"Interesting, here’s what lies ahead of you." She reached below the table and drew out a worn journal, flipping to a blank page. Pulling a fountain pen from her sleeve, she began writing down what she spoke.

“Curiosity has a hold over you. Your mind is full of questions, and the pursuit of their answers have led you to where you are today. Some of what you seek is just an arm’s length away, but their solutions fill you with satisfaction in their logical completeness. Other knowledge has never been touched by human hands, and even if you see through the eye of gods your hunger will not be satiated.

“Your composure appears strong, which is why your reckless actions will come as a surprise to many. It’s natural to you to chase a path to its conclusion. Not out of malice, good intentions will lead deeper into danger. Perhaps that won’t deter you from continuing forward; to you, it’s just an obstacle to surmount.

“The same way you present yourself makes you a mystery. Even you yourself haven’t reached the limit of your depths. In some minds, you are the puzzle to be solved. Others, not knowing how to categorize you, will try to enforce their own preconceptions. Those are the ones to be wary of, since to them you are in the shape to be molded.

“Grab your inquisitiveness by the horns. Temper your nature, refine it to suit your needs. Watch out for the ones who watch you.”

Beck was caught by her words. “What was that last bit?”

Florence carefully pulled the page out along the binding and held it to him. “That’s why I always write it down,” she said with a knowing smile.

He gently took it. Angling the page to the candlelight, he stared through the scrawlings.

"You seem uncertain," she said.

Pursing his lips, Beck glanced timidly at the fortune teller. “I presumed the use of divination or tarot, not something like this.”

“Are you disappointed?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No! No, I wasn’t implying that.” He waved his hands. “It just seemed you were using your intuition rather than signs to guide your words.”

The candor slipped from her face. “You don’t trust my powers?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“I jest, I jest!” Humor reappeared in Florence’s eyes. “I know my form of fortune telling is unconventional, but most of the time my patrons can’t tell the difference. Judging by your reaction, you must be some sort of behaviorist.”

It took a moment for Beck’s mind to reorient. “Yes, my field of study is in the social sciences. You caught me on the wrong foot, I wasn’t expecting what I learned to be relevant here.” He glanced back at the page. “I’m curious, why don’t you use more arcane methods, for lack of a better word?”

“Is that one of the questions I owe you an answer to?”

“I suppose it is.”

She leaned back with a sigh. “Everything I learned came from Nan – She’s my mentor. While familiar with the arcane, as you call it, she decided to strictly go by what was tangible and safe. Through no fault of our own my people are looked down upon, Nan didn’t want to further tarnish other’s opinions by using divination.”

“I appreciate your honesty. It was foolish of me to broach a sensitive subject; you can blame my ‘inquisitive nature.’”

“You know how to apologize to a lady, at the very least. But what is it that you intended to ask?”

“I’m hunting down folklore, so the question about your traditions was tangential. It sounds like this mentor of yours may have more insight into the storied history of your troupe, however there are some things you may know about.” He pointed to the side of the wagon. “The painted scene on the outside, is there a story behind that?”

“Now that is an interesting question,” Florence said. “That mural has been there as long as I have been around, I don’t even know if Nan remembers its origins. Those cliffs and waves under that night sky, it’s a place that many have visited but often forgotten about, a muse.”

Beck looked at her vacantly. “So, you’ve been there before?”

“In a sense,” she responded with a teasing smile.

“Right. Well, how about this?” He gestured to one of the decorations hanging from the roof, a hoop with cords stretched across it to form a net. “Does it have any significance?”

“That? Nan says it comes from Ojibwe culture, American natives from the north. The form is a spider web, a protective charm meant to ward against night terrors. Any reason for the interest?”

“I’ve seen one before; I’m staying with my uncle as an understudy, and he has one of these hoops in his library.”

“This uncle of yours must be a peculiar man.”

He chuckled. “That’s rather an understatement.”

Florence thought for a moment. “Assuming he’s the one sending you on this assignment, that likely means he didn’t procure it thinking it was just some ornament. Your uncle probably knows exactly the talisman’s purpose, which is even more curious.”

"Should I be worried?"

She shrugged. "He's your relative, should you be worried?"

"He's a recluse academic, so no." He glanced back towards the opening. "I appreciate the candidness in your responses, but I don't want to waste your time; is there a time or place I can find Nan, if that is acceptable?"

“Usually an appointment with the psychic extraordinaire isn’t cheap, but for storytelling her admission is just an attentive ear. While the circus is setting up she is out brushing shoulders with the local elite – they see her services as a fun parlor trick – but come a few days she will be around for her nightly tales. If you are by then, I’ll see what I can do for introductions.”

“Thank you Ms. Florence, I’m indebted to your hospitality.”

“Before you go, I have one –” Her eyebrows pinched in thought. “Rather, two questions of my own. First, do my insights seem accurate?”

Beck quickly skimmed over the page in his hand. “Accurate enough. For the predictions, I’ll have to wait and see; I’m not sure I want them to be or not.”

“Then, the second: What is it like overseas?”

The question caught him off guard. “Well, not much different than over here I’m afraid. Older, for sure, but modernity has buried the past of both lands.” He reached up to rub his face. “Sorry, I’m sounding like my uncle all of a sudden.”

Florence smiled, but he could see disappointment in the corners of her eyes. “Proximity will do that,” she said.

“I suppose that’s another reason for me to get out more. Anyways, I appreciate your performance and insight.”

“I’m sure we’ll meet again.” She waved as he exited the wagon.

Outside, the light burned Beck’s vision, and it took him a minute before the world reappeared through tightly-lidded eyes. Zayne was dallying around the outskirts of the caravan.

“Thanks again for all of your help,” Beck called out. “I would have been rather lost otherwise.”

Zayne turned and beamed at him. “Not a problem! Make sure you don’t forget this.” He formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger, then reaching through it with his other hand he pulled out a kerchief.

Beck reached for his own, realizing it was the one Zayne was holding. “I must have dropped that, thanks for picking it up.”

He handed it over to Beck. “Items have an unfortunate habit of ending up where they aren’t meant to be. Take care, and don’t be a stranger!”