Assembling Ella

Dreamscape

PhiTau paused for a moment in his work. He straightened his bent back as best he could and settled his leathery wings more comfortably against it. His eyes looked out toward the horizon, surveying the seemingly endless fields of Dream. Straight rows of dream plants stood knee-high between well-trodden furrows. Translucent web-like dreamstuff erupted from the unharvested plants in complex tangles. The harvested plants looked naked by comparison, all greenish-brown and trembling.

Looking out over the nearly unbroken rows under the broad expanse of purple sky, PhiTau sighed. He knew in his soul of souls that there was no place in the worlds more boring than the Dreaming.

His fellow oneiroi bent and picked, bent and picked. They raked up dreamstuff with their long fingers, freeing the plants from their cocoons and gathering the wispy harvest into soft bundles. The only sounds were their footsteps and the susurrus of plants shivering together.

PhiTau clenched and unclenched his bare toes. He felt sticky and unreal from such labor. Bits of dreamstuff clung to the fur on his arms and the backs of his hands. No matter how thoroughly he rubbed his fingers, they were never quite free of it.

Aside from the boredom, this was the main hazard of the job. Constant handling of the dreamstuff would eventually make parts of his body insubstantial. Hands were often the first to go. It was a fate that befell every harvester in the Dreaming eventually. You could spot the very oldest among them by what they’d lost. Missing fingers. Hands with palms worn through. Arms, hips, knees and toes permeated by the dreamstuff. Somenight, PhiTau would be one of them. The thought made his throat constrict. He coughed to clear it. He had to speak, if only to distract himself.

Do you ever wonder what happens to all of this? He held up a tuft of dreamstuff. Like this piece. Will it be a moon, or a plant, or something we can’t even imagine?

Most of the other oneiroi ignored him, but BetaZeta, the foreman and oldest member of the crew, with fingers blunted and thin from a near-eternity of harvesting, shook his head at PhiTau. Your job is not to imagine. Keep to the task in front of you.

I just think—

It’s not your job to think either, BetaZeta interrupted. The foreman’s voice was as thin as his fingers. It wouldn’t be long before he faded away completely.  Do your work and in due time the Lord may reward you for your diligence.

PhiTau had heard that line before. It was what the long-timers always said to any youngster who asked too many questions.

PhiTau had never heard of anyone being rewarded by Morpheus, but everyone knew about his punishments. Periodically, while harvesting up their row, PhiTau’s crew would come across a group of other harvesters working the neighboring furrow. When that happened, the foremen would allow the work to slow enough that gossip and tales could flow between the crews.

In this way, PhiTau had learned that some harvesters were not left to fade decently away after a lifetime of work well done. Some simply disappeared all at once while their fellows worked on around them. These were always referred to as having been taken by the Lord. The more hopeful harvesters claimed that he had another task for these chosen ones, but most believed that they had been unmade as punishment. For what, no one could say.

Maybe both punishment and reward were nothing but stories made up by bored harvesters.

How? asked PhiTau.

BetaZeta blinked rapidly at him. What do you mean, how?

How will he reward me?

BetaZeta’s lips curled, revealing a flash of yellow teeth. It is not for you to ask such questions, he said. Your purpose is to harvest. If you do it well you may be rewarded. That is all you need to know.

Harvesting was the whole point of an oneiroi’s life. In fact, it was practically the whole of their lives. Supposedly Lord Morpheus, master of the Dreaming and all within it, had created oneiroi specifically to harvest the dreamstuff. He used the dreamstuff to weave unthinkable creations, which were sent into the minds of creatures called humans. As PhiTau understood it, the humans needed dreams and the Lord needed dreamstuff to make those dreams. The harvesters, therefore, did a very important job.

Secretly, PhiTau wasn’t sure he actually believed all that. He’d never seen Lord Morpheus. Although he had heard of people who had supposedly seen him. PhiTau had never even seen where the dreamstuff went. For all he knew, it was dumped into a pile somewhere and left to rot. He’d certainly never seen a human, and doing a thankless task for a creature you’d never seen from the moment of your creation until you faded away to nothing didn’t seem like a rewarding life to PhiTau. It would be nice to know that there was something else to strive for. He tried a different tack.

Has he rewarded you?

The other harvesters shied away, as though the Lord himself might appear to punish PhiTau’s inquisitiveness. He didn’t, of course. But BetaZeta did wrinkle his nose, as though he’d been confronted with something foul.

I have faith.

Faith, PhiTau echoed.

Shut up, PhiTau, someone muttered.

A spattering of nervous giggles rippled through the group. PhiTau turned, but couldn’t tell who had spoken. All of the other harvesters were bent to their work.

Of course, punishment is much easier earned than reward, BetaZeta said.

BetaZeta was content with the bend and pick, just like everyone else. Only PhiTau seemed to wonder about things, to question, to hope that the next moment would be different from this one. It hadn’t happened in PhiTau’s lifetime, but someday it would. It had to.

CHAPTER TWO

Prime and Pose

Ella had hoped to wriggle out of it, but there was no escape. Apparently school shopping was some kind of social imperative. When she protested that she was too old, Mom countered that most 17-year-old girls would be thrilled to spend a day at the mall.

Have you seen the mall lately? Ella pushed away her cereal bowl.

There are other stores in Bangor, Mom answered. She snagged Ella’s dishes on her way out of the dining room.

I basically wear the same outfit every day.

Wouldn’t it be nice to wear something new for your senior year? Mom said just before Ella heard the dishes clatter into the sink.

Ella didn’t say that senior year was already the beginning of something new and what was so great about new things anyway? She preferred old things. Sometimes even broken and discarded things. She made them into art, constructing sculptures out of the dregs from other people’s toy boxes and treasures found at Goodwill.

Mom turned on the water and gave Ella another idea of how to talk her out of this dumb shopping trip. Maybe the mention of a costly home repair would make Mom rethink the whole idea of buying school clothes.

When are those guys coming to dig up the septic tank? she asked.

Not until next week, Mom said. She came back into the dining room. Get your shoes on. We should head out soon.

Ella made a last-ditch effort, as she climbed into the back seat of Mom’s Jeep. We could just go to Wally World.

They had a Wal-Mart right in town, and there were only so many clothes available to try on there. Mom couldn’t possibly stretch the trip to more than an hour or two.

We’re going to the mall, Mom said. It will be fun. Then in the same cheerful tone she added, Hey, why don’t you sit up front?

Ella ignored this, because it was a stupid question. She clicked her seatbelt into place. Mom sighed and adjusted the rearview mirror.

It had been years since Ella rode in the front seat of a car. There was a time when she’d scream and cry if Mom drove faster than she thought was reasonable. Reasonable being defined as something like 20 miles an hour. She’d gotten better about it in the last couple of years. These days, she could avoid a full-on panic attack as long as she kept herself distracted and tried not to think about how, while she was much safer in the back seat, Mom was in the front with nothing but a glass window between her and any oncoming projectile.

Still, she avoided looking out the windows if she could help it. It wasn’t like there was anything worth seeing anyway. Her hometown of Corinna was a smear of houses bisected by a lazy river. Long before she was born, the area had been declared a Superfund site. The EPA had spent millions of dollars to filter woolen mill contaminants out of the water, leaving behind a sanitized nothingness that looked like every other backwoods town in Maine. Except for the crooked intersection that always seemed like an accident waiting to happen.

Newport lay alongside it. Bigger and more bustling, but not really much better. Dad’s apartment building hid behind tall trees down one of the side streets. Ella couldn’t have seen it even if she had been willing to look out the window.

And then they were speeding down the highway in what passed for Saturday traffic on Interstate 95 south of Bangor. Which is to say that, when Ella glanced up, she actually spotted a few other cars on the road. Cars and SUVs and 18-wheelers. All driving too fast, all full of people not paying attention to the other vehicles. As though they were the only ones. As though nothing bad could ever happen to them. Watching them made her heart pound. She slouched lower, propping her knees on the back of the passenger seat, and looked down at her phone.

Who are you talking to? Mom asked.

No one, Ella said.

What are you doing?

Ella sighed. Just looking.

She’d been scrolling through Instagram. Among the hundreds of artists she followed, someone was always posting some new piece that made Ella feel like her stupid plastic sculptures were just piles of broken toys. She looked anyway, partly out of low-key masochistic tendencies and partly hoping to absorb a little bit of their genius by looking long and hard enough.

It wasn’t as though she could spend her weekend at a museum. Maine wasn’t exactly a world center of sculptural art. Or any art really. Someday, she’d go to New York City and see the Guggenheim and MoMA in person. She’d stand in front of a Calder sculpture for hours and just soak it in.

But all that was a daydream, one that would require riding in cars or buses or planes to reach. For now, she had Instagram and YouTube.

If only someone would invent teleportation. Then Ella could hop to New York, or Paris, or Amsterdam, see the art, and get home again without having to ride in any death trap of metal and speed. Her best friend, Liv, was on track to do something mathematical and amazing with her life. Maybe she’d be the one to invent it, and Ella would be right in line as a beta tester.

When they reached the mall, Mom parked under a streetlight in front of JCPenney. Ella prayed she’d done it out of habit and not because she expected them to be there until dark. It was only 10 a.m.

Inside, Mom dragged Ella from store to store. She was doing that cheerful Mom thing. The one where she tried, through sheer force of smile and tone of voice, to convince Ella that they really were having a wonderful time. Watching her, you’d think clothes shopping was the most exciting adventure in the whole universe. Personally, if she had to shop, Ella would rather do it at a thrift store, where she could spend as little as possible on clothes and then use the surplus to buy whatever random bits and pieces called out to be included in her next assemblage.

Thankfully, before the end of the second hour, Mom’s patience started wearing thin. She kept grabbing cute shirts with butterflies and flowers on them, and Ella kept gravitating toward black sweatshirts and skinny jeans, which was literally all she ever wore. Why Mom thought senior year would suddenly make her a different person was beyond her.

In the dressing room Mom said, Ella, put your phone away. You’re supposed to be looking at clothes, not texting.

I’m not texting, Ella said. There was no one to text. Liv and Owen were on some kind of end-of-summer, last-hurrah trip with their parents, which meant they were basically forbidden from looking at their phones. She slipped hers into her back pocket.

Do you like any of these? Mom asked.

Ella stared at the array of cutesy blouses. Why did it matter what shirt she wore to school? She never took off her sweatshirt unless it got in the way during art class. Then whatever she had on underneath was likely to end up covered in paint, glue, or other random art supplies. It would be smarter to take her school shopping money and invest it in a stain remover company. And maybe some kind of fabric dye company for all the times she’d spilled paint thinner, bleach and other assorted chemicals on her clothes. Still, Mom seemed determined not to leave the dressing room until Ella picked something, so Ella caved.

That one. She pointed at a dark blue short-sleeve shirt with tiny silver stars.

Mom squinted at it as though she’d never seen it before, even though she had picked out literally everything in the dressing room. It’s awfully dark.

I like it. It’s like wearing the sky.

Great. Mom smiled. Let’s look at pants and we’ll be done.

Ella rolled her eyes, but only after Mom had turned to gather up the pile of rejected shirts. She knew Mom was trying, but it would be better if she didn’t. If she actually wanted to make Ella happy, she could have stopped to ask what Ella wanted instead of assuming her own daughter was a walking stereotype.

Finally, Mom took her receipt from the cashier and handed the shopping bag full of sort-of-okay clothes to Ella. Then, she took a deep breath. Ella noticed the way the lines at the corners of Mom’s eyes had deepened. It must be all the squinting from looking on the bright side all the time.

Alright, I think we’ve accomplished something here, Mom said.

Ella didn’t really think so, but before she could say as much, Mom added, Do you want frozen yogurt?

Um, yes? Ella said. Was it possible to not want frozen yogurt? Besides, it would get them out of the mall. Sweet Frog was up the street in front of Wal-Mart. The walk to the car took longer than the drive.

They sat at one of the tiny round tables that always seemed to sprout like mushrooms inside of frozen yogurt shops. Ella imagined they weren’t made, but grown from the shiny white tile. Just spread some frozen yogurt on the floor, sow some sprinkles, and in three to six weeks, your tiny tables would begin to grow.

Mom chose a demure coffee fro-yo with chocolate chips on top. Ella had a blue cotton candy and creamsicle monstrosity topped with every type of candy they served, except for sour gummy worms, of course. Ella had just started to eat, when Mom smiled in a way that made her look like her underwear was too tight.

So, Mom said, too casually, how are you getting to school on the first day?

Ella felt sweat prickle along her chest. She should have known Mom had an ulterior motive for this little adventure.

You’re taking me, Ella said, as though saying it out loud would end the argument before it began. No such luck.

Honey, I have to work. Her mother stabbed at the frozen yogurt with her spoon.

Liv will take me then. It doesn’t matter.

What about the bus?

The bus? They don’t even have seatbelts on the bus.

You’re a senior now, don’t you think—

No, Ella said.

They’d had this argument a dozen times or more. Mom couldn’t seem to understand what was so obvious to Ella. Driving was dangerous. Being a senior had nothing to do with it. She could be ninety-nine and it would still be dangerous.

You know, if you had a driver’s license—

No.

Ella wanted to scream. Why couldn’t her mother understand this? It was so simple. Driving was dangerous. She did not drive. End of discussion. 

Honey, I know you’re scared but—

The legs of Ella’s chair squealed against the tile floor as she stood up. She snatched her frozen yogurt from the table. Mom just sat there, looking sad, like she wasn’t the one who’d started this whole thing.

I want to go home now, Ella said. 

Mom avoided her gaze. Well, I want to finish my frozen yogurt.

Fine.

Her mother could be so stubborn. Ella stomped away. Outside, she dropped into one of the bistro chairs that were cluttering up the sidewalk. She didn’t know why they bothered to put the stupid things here. It wasn’t like anyone wanted to eat frozen yogurt while sucking in exhaust fumes and gazing out over the scenic parking lot.

She shoveled a heaping spoonful of frozen yogurt into her mouth and sputtered when whipped cream somehow made its way up her left nostril. This was all her mother’s fault. She’d tricked Ella into coming on this stupid shopping trip. I want to buy you new school clothes we can’t afford. Right. As though some new clothes would make Ella say, Oh yes, these metal death traps that killed my brother are totally safe and I would like to operate one please. If Jack had drowned, nobody would be trying to force her to become an Olympic swimmer. But for some reason everyone had to have a driver’s license. It was stupid and unfair.

By the time her mother came outside, smiling as though nothing had happened, Ella’s frozen yogurt was a melted soupy mess. She threw it in the trash can, but pocketed the neon green plastic spoon. She could see a use for it later.

CHAPTER THREE

Dream Come True

After the argument with BetaZeta, PhiTau went about his work silently. He couldn’t afford to draw any more attention. He already wasn’t the most popular oneiroi. Even when he wasn’t talking back, he worked slowly and his attention tended to wander. Which is why he was the first to notice a spot of color off in the distance, a flash of blue.

It was a small spot, but moving closer at a speed no oneiroi could accomplish on his bent and bandy legs. Fascinated, PhiTau paused in his work. He couldn’t help it. All around him, the other harvesters continued to rake dreamstuff from the plants and put it into their baskets and dump the baskets into carts. PhiTau did not. He could not. His eyes demanded a look at the only anomaly that had ever graced this landscape.

Under the purple sky, over the red-brown fields, between the rows of dreamstuff, something was moving. Whatever it was, it was coming closer. PhiTau tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It was not an oneiroi. It was not a cart. That exhausted every reasonable option, which left him with only the unreasonable. There was nothing else in the Dreaming that could move unless the plants had sprouted legs and learned to dance. Except . . . could it be?

PhiTau held his breath. He stared until his eyes ached, afraid that if he looked away the blue spot would disappear and his world would once again empty of all interest. And that was how PhiTau, of all the harvesters in all the Dreaming, happened to be standing idle when the Lord of Dream strode up between the furrows.

The spot of blue had been the fabric of his robe, which billowed around him as he walked. The fine woven belt showed off the leanness of his figure. This was all PhiTau had time to notice before the Dream Lord stopped, barely more than an arm’s length away.

Never had PhiTau been so close to greatness. He felt rooted in place. He knew he should bend to his work, show the Lord that he was a diligent harvester who did as he was told, but he could not. Instead he tilted back his head so he could look into the face of his god.

Lord Morpheus loomed, hands on his hips and head held high. The Dreaming was his. His six-fingered hands had shaped every part of it, the plants and the carts, and all the oneiroi including PhiTau. PhiTau had doubted this before, but now he knew it, knew it to the core of his soul. It would have been impossible to look at Morpheus and not see that he was the lord and master of all that he surveyed.

As Morpheus’ green eye roved over the workers bending and plucking, his blue eye stared out over unseen lands. PhiTau had heard that Lord Morpheus wore the shape of a human. This was impossible to confirm since PhiTau had never seen one, nor had any of his fellow harvesters. One thing was certain, Morpheus with his straight limbs, wingless back, and dark hair that grew only on his head, was no oneiroi.

PhiTau observed all this, and then, in a fit of audacity, looked into Morpheus’ green eye, drinking in the strangeness, the newness of a god in their midst. For a moment the green eye alone stared back at him. Then the blue, recalled from wherever it was wandering, turned on him as well.

PhiTau lowered his gaze. Too late.

You. Lord Morpheus pointed one long finger, pale and delicate where PhiTau’s were rough and weathered. Come with me.

The voice was rich, musical, full of possibility and the knowledge of things as yet unimagined. PhiTau felt his hearts jump into his throat. If he did not move right now they would escape from his chest and run off after the Dream Lord without him.

Apparently satisfied that his command would be obeyed, Morpheus turned without another word. With the Dream Lord’s eyes no longer pinning him to the earth, PhiTau felt able to move. That was a good thing, because the Lord’s long legs carried him easily across the fields. PhiTau had to scurry to keep up. He didn’t so much as glance back at BetaZeta and the other harvesters who had populated the entirety of his life so far. His mind was too full of possibility to spare a thought for what was being left behind.

What could Morpheus possibly want with him? Was this the reward that BetaZeta had talked about? If so, it couldn’t have gone to a less deserving oneiroi. PhiTau knew himself to be lazy, slow to harvest, and quick to distraction. Perhaps this was not a reward at all, but a punishment. Maybe he would be interrogated, beaten, unmade. These thoughts should have scared him, PhiTau knew, but another feeling, stronger than fear, had him in its grip—curiosity. What came after this didn’t matter, because for the first time in PhiTau’s long and dreary life, something new was happening.

What is your name? The voice startled PhiTau so completely that he almost tripped. His eyes had been so full of Morpheus that there had been no room for anyone else. But now that the voice had drawn his attention, PhiTau noticed a tall oneiroi, slightly less bent than PhiTau and his fellow harvesters, hurrying along behind Morpheus. In one hand, he held a board with a sheet of paper clipped to it. In the other, he held a stick of graphite. PhiTau looked at these tools with wonder. He’d heard of writing, a way of passing knowledge with shapes, but he’d never actually seen it done. All of PhiTau’s