He clicked his fingers and a steaming mug of hot-chocolate appeared. He frowned, the second click produced a topping of whipped cream, sprinkles, and marshmallows. Better he thought. He leaned back staring at the lettering on the plain white front.
Dreams
A series of images and sensations that occur just during sleep … or do they?
The Book of Un-reality fell open to a blank page. Idly Thrumps scribbled, ‘To sleep, perchance to dream,’ but a red pen jumped up and crossed it out. He corrected the quote, ‘To die, to sleep, perchance to dream.’ The pen underlined it.
The envelope fluttered as if impatient to reveal its contents. Thrumps absent-mindedly finished his chocolate, the mug disappeared the instant it was put down. Running a finger gently on the envelope, it quietened expectantly as he slid the paper knife to open the top. The contents jumped out and unfolded face up.
Dear Professor Thrumpus,
Please excuse this rather inapt method of contact but there really was no other way that I could think of to get a message to the future. You have always been so kind to everyone that walks through your doors and have provided many a lifeline, so all things willing I hope this will continue or this attempt towards rightfulness will be futile.
It is 1945, the war is all but at an end. As you now know Hitler will commit suicide and the surrender of Germany will be accepted, but that has not happened, not quite yet. Right now there is still fighting, still bombs and still people that will get caught up in the aftermath.
People like her (see the enclosed photo).
It was of a young woman in a uniform, the red cross emblazoned across the front of her apron.
Her name is Moira. Thrumps shuddered.
She has to know that her dream will come true and that if she is to survive then she has to trust her instincts. The shelter is not safe.
It is up to you to make sure she can leave.
There was no signature.
Thrumps stared at it. How on earth am I supposed to tell her?
When he looks up the shop was an air-raid shelter, complete with sandbags across the door, corrugated iron on the windows and a warden guarding against anyone trying to escape. There in the far corner Moira sat wringing her hands.
The red pen tapped on the page they had been writing on, eager for the new words to be read. Thrumps laughed … The literal meaning of the quote is that a better choice is often death as then all the suffering ends. Death is just a long sleep and so (perchance) maybe dreams are real after human’s are dead (?).
“Do you think she is contemplating suicide?” Thrumps asked the pen. Anywhere else except in The Emporium that would have been a very strange thing to do, but this was The Emporium and nothing was ever considered strange within these walls.
The pen scribbled, ‘if she dies you would be able to talk to her.’ Thrumps re-read the letter.
“But …” he paused.
A loud explosion rattled the shelter so hard that the earth from above showered down in a fine dust. The lights flickered but didn’t go out. That’s it thought Thrumps, the next time it happens I’ll kill the lights, the guard-dog at the door will then not see her go. But as it happens, he had to do no such thing, the next blast caved the whole shelter in on itself, there were screams for help everywhere. Her Red Cross training kicked in, and although she was injured, she shouted orders, arranged gangs to dig through the rubble and took it upon herself to administer first aid as much as she could.
As night fell, things settled. The raid above seemed over. She was so tired that against her better judgement, she fell asleep and dreamed of her boy, about what would become of him. She worried if he was still alive, if the raid had flattened everything and no one had survived.
Thrumps leaned down and took her hand. She didn’t know him; he’d not been in the shelter. He did look familiar, but she knew he wasn’t really there.
“You need to come with me.” He said gently raising her to her feet. Without question she followed him past the ornate writing desk and through the velvet curtain. Sitting in the fireside chair sipping hot sweet tea she didn’t say a word. Thrumps busied himself with more coal, and poked at the ashes, he was at a loss as to what to do next. When he looked back, she was sleeping.
He picked her up, carried her back through the velvet curtain, through the debris, through the blocked wall of the shelter and laid her gently on the rubble outside of the door.
“Here!” He shouted to an air raid warden “This one’s alive.”
Planting a kiss on her temple he whispered, “See you soon mum.”
Back at his desk Thrumps awoke to the sound of the red pen scratching away once again
We are all dreaming in our own way. It wrote, but while the majority of people never make contact with one another … some dreams have to collide.