Graham Masterton: Revenge of the Manitou

In school, with the sunshine sloping across the desks, Mrs. Novato, a young dark-baked woman with a hairy mole on one cheek and a taste for billowing Indian dresses, announced a class excursion in one week’s time. It would cost a dollar-thirty-five, and every pupil would have to bring a packed lunch. They were going to drive up to Lake Berryessa, in the Vaca Mountains, for nature study and maybe some swimming, too.

Toby was sitting next to Petra Delgada, a serious little girl who never spoke much and always went to mass on Sundays. Mrs. Novato had placed him there because he giggled and talked too much whenever he sat next to his best friend, the coppery-haired Linus Hopland. Linus was in the front row now, his hair shining in the sunshine like the Point Arena lighthouse. Toby whispered to Petra, “Are you going up to the lake? Will your folks let you?”

Petra shrugged, and pursed her lips demurely. “I don’t know. I’ve’ been sick for the past four days. Mommy may not let me.”

“You’ve been sick? You mean, you’ve puked?”

“You mustn’t say puke. It’s disgusting.”

Toby colored a little. He didn’t like Petra to think that he wasn’t grown-up and sophisticated. Petra, after all, was nearly nine, and next in line for class president.

Toby said: “Well, what do you mean? You got the measles?”

“As a matter of fact, I have insomnia,” said Petra.

“Is that catching?”

“Of course not, stupid. Insomnia is when you can’t sleep. Can’t you see these rings around my eyes? Mommy says it’s due to hypertension in prepuberty.”

Toby frowned. He didn’t like to admit that he didn’t have the faintest idea of what Petra was talking about. He’d kind of heard of “puberty,” and he knew it had something to do with growing hairs on your doodad- which is what his grandpa always used to call it-but that was about the extent of his knowledge. Like most children to — whom the most important things in life are skateboards, Charlie’s Angels, and Captain Cosmic, he’d been told, but had quickly forgotten.

“What do you do all night if you don’t sleep?” asked Toby. “Do you walk about, or what?”

“Oh, I sleep some of the time,” explained Petra. “The trouble is, I keep having bad dreams. They wake me up, and then it takes me a long tune to go back to sleep.”

“Bad dreams? I had a bad dream last night.”

“Well, I’m sure your bad dream wasn’t as bad as my bad dreams,” said Petra. “My bad dreams are simply awful.”

“I dreamed there was somebody stuck in my wardrobe,” said Toby. In the sunlit classroom, it sounded pretty lame. The cold terror of seeing that gray face in the walnut door had been vaporized by the warmth of the day.

Petra tilted her nose up. “That’s nothing. I keep dreaming about blood. I keep dreaming about all these people covered with blood.”

Toby was impressed. “That’s real frightening,” he admitted. “People covered with blood-that’s real frightening.”

“Mommy says it’s prepuberty fears,” said Petra, airily. “She’s says it’s a woman’s fear of her natural function brought about by men’s lack of understanding of what a woman is.”

Mrs. Novato called; “Petra? Are you talking? I’m surprised at you.”

Petra gave Toby a sharp look, and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Novato. I was trying to explain something to Toby.”

The class of twenty boys and girls, all between the ages of eight and ten, looked around at them. Mrs. Novato said, “If there’s something you don’t understand, Toby, you can always ask me. That’s what I’m paid for. Apart from that, I’m a little better informed than Petra on most subjects.”

Linus Hopland was grinning at Toby and pulling faces. Toby couldn’t help smirking, and he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from laughing out loud.

Mrs. Novato said; “Stand up, Toby. If you’ve got a question to ask, if there’s something you don’t understand, then let’s share your problem. That is what a class is for, to share.”

Toby reluctantly stood. He kept his eyes fixed on his desk.

“Well?” asked Mrs. Novato. “What was it that you wished to know?”

Toby didn’t answer.

“It was so important that you had to discuss it with Petra in the middle of nature study, and yet you can’t tell me what it was?”

Toby said, in a small, husky voice, “It was Petra’s dreams, Mrs. Novato.”

“Speak up,” insisted his teacher. “I didn’t hear you.”

“It was Petra’s dreams. Petra’s been having bad dreams, and so have I.”

Mrs. Novato blinked at him. “Bad dreams? What kind of bad dreams?”

“I’ve been dreaming about a man stuck in my wardrobe calling for help, and Petfa’s been having dreams about people covered with blood.”

Mrs. Novato walked slowly down the aisle toward them. She looked first at Toby and then at Petra. On the blackboard behind her was the chalked message: “Trees in the Petrified Forest were turned to stone by minerals.’”

Mrs. Novato said, “Have you told your parents about these dreams?”

The children nodded.

“Yes, Mrs. Novato.”

Mrs. Novato smiled. “In that case, I’m sure you’re both going to be fine. Maybe a little less cheese at bedtime, and those dreams are sure to disappear. Now, forget about what goes on in dreams and let’s have your attention on something that’s real. The trees in the Petrified Forest.”

Toby sat down again. Petra, annoyed at having been scolded by Mrs. Novato, pinched him hard on the leg.

During lunch recess, in the hot, dusty school yard with its chain-link fence, Toby sat on a split-log bench and ate his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Today, despite Ben Nichelini’s entreaties to trade a sandwich for a live lizard on a piece of string, he felt hungry, and he ate everything his mother had prepared for him. He carefully saved his Baby Ruth bar until last.

Andy Beaver, who was the envy of the class because his uncle had taken him to see Star Wars, was doing a passable imitation of R-2 D-2, while Karen Doughty was breathing in and out very loudly and panting: “I’m Darth Vader! I’m Darth Vader!”

Daniel Soscol, one of the youngest boys in the class, came across the school yard and sat down next to Toby, watching him eat with silent interest. Daniel wasn’t very popular because he was so young and so quiet. He had thin arms and legs, and big dark eyes. His father was a plumber in Valley Ford, and his mother had died in May.

Toby continued to eat. When he had finished, he took out the square of kitchen towel that his mother had neatly folded under his sandwiches, and wiped his mouth.

Daniel said, “I heard you say about the dreams.”

Toby looked up. “So?” he said, acting a little tough because Daniel was the class runt. He wouldn’t have liked Andy Beaver to see him being too nice to Daniel, in case Andy Beaver’s gang started to treat him the same way. Leaving thumbtacks on his seat, hiding his books, things like that.

Daniel said, “I had bad dreams, too. Real scary ones. I dreamed I was walking through this forest and suddenly all these things came dropping out of the trees.”

“What’s scary about that?”

“What’s scary about somebody stuck in a wardrobe?”

“Well, it was scary at the time,” said Toby.

“So was mine.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Toby unwrapped his Baby Ruth and started to chew it. A coolish breeze from the west raised dust on the yard, and in the distance a cock began to crow.

Daniel said, “We’re not the only ones. Ben Nichelini had a bad dream too. He dreamed he was running and running and all these fierce people were trying to catch him.”

“Everybody has dreams like that,” said Toby.