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It was amazing.
Absolutely and completely amazing.
Watching it all unfold right before me, well, I couldn’t help but take a quick mental inventory of all the old dreams I remembered from my past, unable to see them the same way I once had.
Though unlike the opera, it seemed it was over before it could really get started. And the next thing I knew Balthazar leaped from his chair and shouted, “She’s awake! That’s a wrap! Good work, everyone!”
The girl vanished—like, one second she was there and the next, not. And while the crew busied themselves with clearing the stage and dismantling the set, the guy wiped the tears from his eyes and profusely thanked Balthazar—telling him that for the first time since his death, he felt like he’d truly gotten through to his grieving fiancée.
Buttercup bounded toward the pile of doggy biscuits Balthazar held in his hand. All puffed up and self-satisfied with his performance, his newfound star power, he went about the business of busily wolfing them down, as Balthazar smiled and said, “Here he is—the true star of this show!” Then looking at me, he added, “I am in your debt. Because of your dog, the dream was saved. The girl was dreaming of a beautiful field of sparkling lakes, black and white swans, and, believe it or not, angelic, flying dogs. And, as I had none on hand, when you showed up when you did—well, it saved the entire production. So please, tell me, how can I ever repay you?”
I pressed my lips together, struggled to make sense of his words. What he’d just said was entirely different from what I thought I’d just witnessed.
“Wait—” I squinted, shook my head. “You mean to say that you didn’t actually create that dream?” I gazed right at him, noting how he was so short, he was exactly eye level with me. “Are you saying that you merely re-created a dream that was already in progress?” My mind ran with the concept—it was an even bigger feat than I’d imagined.
I glanced toward Mort, alerted by the way his eyebrows shot up so high they practically blended into his scalp, and when my gaze landed on Balthazar again, well, he just looked at me and balked.
Like, seriously balked.
His lips flattening, whitening, as his nostrils flared, his ears twitched, and his cheeks threatened to explode in a burst of red, anger-fueled fury.
And then, just when I was sure it couldn’t get any worse, I watched, completely mortified (completely mystified!), as Balthazar spun on his heel and stormed away without another word.
10
For someone who had just professed to be in my debt—for someone who had just claimed that because of my dog I had heroically saved the day—for someone who claimed to have ginormous gobs of gratitude reserved just for me—well, all I can say is that when Balthazar stormed away, it pretty much cancelled all that.
Buttercup slunk to his belly and let out a low, sorrowful whimper, as Mort mumbled a whole string of words under his breath that sounded like, “Oh boy, now you’ve done it …” I just stood there and gaped, having no idea what I’d done to offend Balthazar in such a big, apparently unforgivable way.
It was Mort who finally went after him, somehow convincing him to stop long enough to hear him out. And though I still have no idea what he said, I do know that Balthazar reconsidered, turned, and finally made his way back where he stood before me, taking great care to enunciate each and every word as he said, “I am told this is your first visit to Dreamland, no?”
I nodded, far too afraid to say something wrong.
He paused, studied me closely, fingering the knotted silk scarf at his throat. “And so, this … this … ignorance of yours, it must be forgiven, yes?”
I nodded again. Not really liking the word “ignorance” being so easily applied to me, but knowing better than to say anything.
“And so, we shall agree to never speak of it again?”
I glanced between Mort and Buttercup, saw their dual nods of encouragement. Then I looked at Balthazar, and said, “Um, okay … I just thought maybe you could help me send a dream to my sister, but I guess I misunderstood, so …”
Mort gasped.
Buttercup placed his paws over his eyes.
And just when I was sure it couldn’t get any worse, Balthazar spoke in a voice that was quite a bit higher, quite a bit screechier than I’d come to expect. “Correction!” he practically shouted. “We do not send dreams. Nor do we create dreams, but, rather, we dream jump. You would like to dream jump, I think, yes?”
He nodded. Nodded in a way that told me that if I knew what was good for me then I would nod too.
So I did.
And then, I cleared my throat and said, “Yes,” just to reiterate.
And then I nodded again.
It may have been overkill. But heck, practically from the moment I’d arrived I’d said everything wrong. From what I could tell, these people were really stuck on using just the right words, so I don’t think I can be blamed for trying to do something right for a change.