noisy if none of them passed through, orwere quickly silenced if one of their number was swallowed whole by the innocent air.
All who came to Try and found themselves able to enter the Place assumed that, like Tziga Hame, they would be able to follow the remains of the road a few hours In from the border, lie down and catch a dream. This was not the case. Most caught a little sleep, but nothing else. But some went In often enough to be able to give their friends — or the newspapers — a better description of that territory so few were able to see. They reported that the Place was vast, much larger in its interior than the territory it seemed to encompass in the Rifleman Ranges. They reported that it was never dark in the Place, although no sun could be seen in its luminous, white sky. There, they found, no flame could be kindled. Only humans could cross the border, so no one could take In a horse and cart, and any supplies had to be either carried, or wheeled In on hand barrows. And, because no flame could be kindled, machines driven by steam power or internal combustion didn’t work.
The explorers boasted, or complained, about their hard rations, the dry, cold food and cold beverages on which they lived. They reported on the uselessness of compasses. Some were so curious about this uncanny, exclusive Place into which they — special people — had been admitted, that they carried in surveying equipment and began to make maps. They formed a club, first meeting in the big parlour of the inn at Doorhandle. Some, poor and keen to work, offered themselves as porters to those others who, like Tziga Hame, could catch and carry dreams.
The people of Doorhandle were probably the first to notice the changed appearance of those who maderepeated trips into the Place. The mapmakers, trailblazers, porters got the look that anyone who kept going In did. They grew thin, rangy, dry-skinned. The dreamhunters took on this look too, but their eyes changed as well. Whereas the ‘rangers’ — as the mapmakers and porters had begun to call themselves — developed crow’s feet from squinting into bright distances, the dreamhunters gradually all came to wear a strange stare, as though the distances into which they looked exhausted them, were full of terrible battles or tormenting mysteries.
The dreamhunters were making their own discoveries. Many had begun to emerge from the Place with dreams for which there was no existing market. They began to advertise these dreams in the classified section of Founderston’s daily newspaper. Some pooled their resources and rented one of the small hotels on the Isle of the Temple, a city district of Founderston. These small consortiums of dreamhunters would dream to paying, sleepover audiences — audiences that were growing quickly as more and more people sampled and were enthralled by these astonishing shared dreams. Dreams as coherent, full and physical as lived experiences — but in which no one was ever themselves, so that the timid could be brave, the infirm could be well, men could be women, and women men, and the old could be young again.
Dreamhunters organised themselves for their growing market. They printed posters and flyers. One might describe his dreams as outdoor adventures; another, in a careful code, as ‘Dreams for Sporting Gentlemen’. One might offer battles and football matches; another dreams ‘soothing to the mind’.
An industry had begun.
WITHIN EIGHTEEN YEARS dreamhunting has become central to the domestic economy and cultural life of Southland. To any historian, the activity has even more the appearance of an apparition than those other appearances that can make the past seem not quite continuous with the present: the invention of the printing press, the discovery of the New World, the invention of the steam engines that drove the Industrial Revolution and — if for a moment I can play prophet instead of historian — those fragile flying machines that are now
All who came to Try and found themselves able to enter the Place assumed that, like Tziga Hame, they would be able to follow the remains of the road a few hours In from the border, lie down and catch a dream. This was not the case. Most caught a little sleep, but nothing else. But some went In often enough to be able to give their friends — or the newspapers — a better description of that territory so few were able to see. They reported that the Place was vast, much larger in its interior than the territory it seemed to encompass in the Rifleman Ranges. They reported that it was never dark in the Place, although no sun could be seen in its luminous, white sky. There, they found, no flame could be kindled. Only humans could cross the border, so no one could take In a horse and cart, and any supplies had to be either carried, or wheeled In on hand barrows. And, because no flame could be kindled, machines driven by steam power or internal combustion didn’t work.
The explorers boasted, or complained, about their hard rations, the dry, cold food and cold beverages on which they lived. They reported on the uselessness of compasses. Some were so curious about this uncanny, exclusive Place into which they — special people — had been admitted, that they carried in surveying equipment and began to make maps. They formed a club, first meeting in the big parlour of the inn at Doorhandle. Some, poor and keen to work, offered themselves as porters to those others who, like Tziga Hame, could catch and carry dreams.
The people of Doorhandle were probably the first to notice the changed appearance of those who maderepeated trips into the Place. The mapmakers, trailblazers, porters got the look that anyone who kept going In did. They grew thin, rangy, dry-skinned. The dreamhunters took on this look too, but their eyes changed as well. Whereas the ‘rangers’ — as the mapmakers and porters had begun to call themselves — developed crow’s feet from squinting into bright distances, the dreamhunters gradually all came to wear a strange stare, as though the distances into which they looked exhausted them, were full of terrible battles or tormenting mysteries.
The dreamhunters were making their own discoveries. Many had begun to emerge from the Place with dreams for which there was no existing market. They began to advertise these dreams in the classified section of Founderston’s daily newspaper. Some pooled their resources and rented one of the small hotels on the Isle of the Temple, a city district of Founderston. These small consortiums of dreamhunters would dream to paying, sleepover audiences — audiences that were growing quickly as more and more people sampled and were enthralled by these astonishing shared dreams. Dreams as coherent, full and physical as lived experiences — but in which no one was ever themselves, so that the timid could be brave, the infirm could be well, men could be women, and women men, and the old could be young again.
Dreamhunters organised themselves for their growing market. They printed posters and flyers. One might describe his dreams as outdoor adventures; another, in a careful code, as ‘Dreams for Sporting Gentlemen’. One might offer battles and football matches; another dreams ‘soothing to the mind’.
An industry had begun.
WITHIN EIGHTEEN YEARS dreamhunting has become central to the domestic economy and cultural life of Southland. To any historian, the activity has even more the appearance of an apparition than those other appearances that can make the past seem not quite continuous with the present: the invention of the printing press, the discovery of the New World, the invention of the steam engines that drove the Industrial Revolution and — if for a moment I can play prophet instead of historian — those fragile flying machines that are now
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